What is it about children that makes floors wet? Either they’re spilling this, splashing in that or having various and sundry accidents over there. And then, of course, if the spill, splash or accident involved something sticky one must mop said floor which is just making it wet on a controlled level. It boggles the mind.
Spring is in the air, the flowers are blooming, and I’m researching the process of fermenting cruciferous vegetables. Yes, indeed, all is right with the world.
I would really like to be able to write something nifty and witty. I would take the mallet of awesome words and bash through the wall of Writer’s Block. I would burst out the other side and stand triumphant before a crowd of the few and the faithful who care about my words. There would be a smattering of golf claps and then I would leap forward to accomplish another feat of wordsmithing worthy of remembering for minutes and minutes. Behind me the Wall of Writer’s Block would crumble in the sun. The dust from its crumblings would be scattered to the eight winds never to reform, never to trouble me again.
Instead I’m sitting in front of my computer trying, with a just a dab of panic, to find something nifty to write about. I started writing about the realization I had about myself last night because of Theresa talking about the book on home design she’s reading. I was going to write about how I realized that I like big, open spaces and why. I figured out why I’ve never felt comfortable at a certain house and that it wasn’t anything I was doing wrong. I even figured out why I was freaking over the seating arrangement I’d set up outside. But that’s not interesting enough to write about.
I started writing about the insane, crazy, psycho move I was involved in on Saturday. I was going to write about how I felt like I was standing on the line between the women of the group and the men. I was lifting boxes here and there, but then I stopped that to finish packing the old apartment. When I got to the new house I started helping unload, but I stopped to clean the new kitchen. And then I stood in the backyard drinking beer with the guys. It was a peculiar day. And I was going to write about it, but it’s too finicky to find the right words; I could easily be misunderstood. So I’m not going to write about that.
Which leaves me with writing about writer’s block. It’s not that I can’t think of anything to write about. It’s just that I can’t write about anything. I’ve even composed posts and ideas in my head. But apparently my head isn’t on speaking terms with my fingers so we’re stuck with nothing written.
I even had this nifty thought to write a series of vignettes all starting with the same phrase, but making that phrase mean something vastly different each time.
“He reached for her, but at the last minute she ducked out of his reach. His hands closed on air where her throat had been and he swore in frustration. He whirled just as she drew a gun and leveled it at his chest.”
“He reached for her, but just as his hand touched her pillow he remembered she was gone. He had laid her to rest in the ground and now she would never lie beside him again. He rested his hand against the empty pillow and cried long into the night.”
“He reached for her and caught her just as she jumped from the swing. The wind played with her curls as she cackled at her own cleverness. He tossed her up in air once, twice before setting her feet back on the ground. She ran toward the swing set to do it all again.”
See? It was going to be brilliant. But it’s just never going to happen at this point. I’m just going to be stuck with nothing interesting to write about. I guess the Great Block won again.
Super Frog ran through the dining room today while I was folding laundry. His purple cape fluttered behind him as he dashed toward the breakfast room. Surely there is evil to be fought at that end of the house. He was soon followed by Super Frog the Second, Super Frog’s diminutive side-kick. His purple cape is about two sizes too big for him and it drapes dangerously low to the ground. Super Frog the Second doesn’t let this trouble him, though, as he follows Super Frog. The side-kick understands as well as the hero that there are important things to do in the back of the house. First, there is running to be done. Then, no doubt, there will be jumping. Super Frog’s responsibilities are many, but he doesn’t crack under the burden. He is strong and bouncy.
Super Frog is now busy explaining the rules of jumping to any and all who will listen. The rules are very clear- “You can only jump like a frog when you’re down. If you’re up like this,” here Super Frog demonstrates the position in question, “you can’t jump. Except for Super Frog the Second.” “Of course”, a bystander agrees, “Because he doesn’t understand.” And then Super Frog hops out of the room in the proper hopping position followed by his loyal side kick who hops however he feels like.
Farewell, Super Frog and Super Frog the Second. I feel safer just knowing they’re out there somewhere fighting the forces of evil and improper hopping posture.
Allow me to tell you about my weekend. Seth and Crystal were going out of town to a small, indie game designer’s convention. It was a combination networking opportunity and birthday present for Crystal. She was looking forward to it, Seth was looking forward to it and I really didn’t mind the idea of babysitting the children. I mean, what’s two days, right? Then I got sick.
It was the sort of cold that tricks you right at first and makes you think it is merely a cold. Then, about a day after you have diagnosed the problem as “Common Cold”, the full degree of illness pounces on you from behind a potted plant, wrestles you to the ground and reveals itself as “The Truly Yucky Cold”. I think it laughs gleefully, too. It’s the sort of cold that requires you to inject your current “Get Out Of Bed And Start The Day” pep talk with a shot of espresso before you can stagger out of bed and into a hot, hot shower. The hot shower is necessary to rid your body of the effects of sleeping with a cold. ‘Shame on you,’ your cold seems to say, ‘You slept. Now I will punish you!’ You shower to purge your body of the punishment and then you must go lie down to recover from the shower.
After you’ve flopped on the sofa for a while you think maybe you could be in the mood for some food if someone would only bring it to you, cut it into bite sized pieces and feed you so you don’t have to do more that chew. If they could swallow for you too that would great because right now there is a knife in your throat and every time you swallow you stab yourself forcefully with it. Since you are against self-mutilation you decide not to swallow so you stay on the couch and wait for your official swallowers to come. Sadly, they never do. And your food never comes because while the children are proficient at preparing breakfast for themselves you are pretty sure that a bowl of cereal with rich, creamy milk is not what the doctor ordered. You think perhaps you could get up and make your own food, something less milky, if you could simply stop stabbing yourself in the throat with a knife and if whoever was sitting on your sinuses would get off.
A thought springs into your head. In the kitchen, a mere three thousand miles away, is a bottle of Ibuprofen. This bottle has the power to remove the knife that you keep sticking yourself with. You are so excited by this thought that you would dance with glee if you could manage to get up, but there is a catch. There is always a catch. Ibuprofen, you have been taught, is hard on the stomach and you must have food in your stomach before you can take it. But, you whimper, how am I supposed to make food before I have the Ibuprofen? Your plan was to bask in the Ibuprofen before you made your food and tried to force it past the knife in your throat, but the Cold knows this. It is canny and cunning and doubtless it is smarter than you. You would weep quietly in defeat, but you have no idea what that would do to the precariously balanced level of not-pain you have established there on the sofa.
And so the day goes. The children are lovely to you and only require the smallest bit of work and love from you. The church folk are lovely to you and ask what they can do to help and refuse to believe you when you say you’re not sure you need help other than a knife-removal surgery. The only thing not lovely to you is the Truly Yucky, Nasty, No-Good, Bad-Bad Cold which breaks down your defenses and invites his good friend Pink Eye over to play. The rest of your weekend proceeds apace, but with tea bags on your eyes.
I was going to write a blog post, but I only seem to have boring thoughts right now. Perhaps it’s an aftereffect of the flu. Perhaps it really was a genetically engineered virus, which not only makes you crave fast-food cheeseburgers, but strips away your creativity to make you a good little automaton to work fast food. Perhaps someone needs to go on a grand quest to find the antidote to this ghastly aftereffect. Perhaps…
Oh, wait, never mind. I seem to be cured.
I have an unusual relationship with the roads in Peoria. The relationship is unusual in that I actually know what the main roads are called and, more or less, where they go. This is unusual for me at least because in Erie I didn’t know many roads even though I’d grown up there. I knew how to get places, but I couldn’t give directions because I didn’t know what any of the roads were named. I knew that you turned left at the gas station and drove until you were supposed to turn right. Y’know, at that place. When I moved to Peoria I actually needed to learn my way around and so I had to learn the names of the roads. And then I figured out the personalities of the roads. They make up an odd, peculiar, very very normal family of roads.
War Memorial is the big, burly brother of the pack. He knows where he’s been and where he going and how important he is. Everything else makes way for him. He would be arrogant if he weren’t so right about himself. War Memorial is the linebacker of the family.
Knoxville is the eldest sister. She’s warm, nurturing and a little flighty. Where she intersects with War Memorial is fraught with turmoil as they bicker and disagree. She is probably as important as War Memorial, but less dependable so she’s not given as much recognition.
University is the next youngest. He’s got a lot of hero worship for War Memorial and tries to be like him. He’s a lot more clever than his big brother, though. Less muscle, more brains. University has a lot of good things going for him, but he’s too caught up in not being like his brother than he often overlooks his own good qualities.
Glen and Lake are twins girls. They’re best friends, always together and a little rowdy. They look almost nothing alike, but since they’re together all the time most people get them confused. If you can figure out which is which and then get them interested in something they are very dependable, but all too often people spend all their time getting them confused.
Sheridan is the punk skater of the Road family. He’s small and wiry and often hangs out with a pretty rough crowd. But if you can get him on his own and make him feel comfortable this punk skater has a lot of good things to offer. He gets along real well with the twins Lake and Glen and never gets them confused.
Prospect is the elderly father of the family. He is a dapper, old gentleman, built more like Sheridan than War Memorial. He’s learned to slow down and enjoy where he’s going so often he looks like an eccentric, but this road holds a lot of wisdom. He’s very pleased to be a road and has never wished to be anything else.
Main St. is Prospect’s counterpart, the elegant, finely coiffed battle ax of the family. She looks very elegant and has a lot of history, but she’s hard as nails. She doesn’t cover as much territory as most of her children, but she has a lot of experience with where she is.
Sterling is Father Prospect’s brother, the crazy uncle of the family. He’s a little set apart from the rest of the family and I think they prefer it that way. He begins right outside of a junky used car lot and runs along his merry way until he bumps into War Memorial. There’s great confusion where they meet and by the time they get it all sorted out Sterling has vanished. It’s just the way he is.
There are other roads in Peoria to be sure, but they play lesser roles in the family. Forest Hill, for example, is one of Sheridan’s skater friends. He’s pretty cool, but he’s trying just a little too hard sometimes. Oddly enough I-74 had no place in the family. It’s not even the robot butler. It’s just a road. Pioneer Park, however, is the new family pet. He’s barely housebroken, but still they’re all very fond of him.
I can’t say yet whether knowing the roads’ personalities will help with giving directions or knowing my way around. But at least I know their names and could turn you to turn right on University, left on War Memorial and then right again at, um, well, there’ll be a gas station on your right and a sign that says Famous Footwear. Yeah, turn there.
There is a thrill that comes with finding a good book. That’s why I like used books stores. You’re never sure what you might find. It’s like a game, like you’re the predator prowling among bookshelves.
There you are, moving among the shelves like a panther stalking a moose. The lights hum above you, the smell of book is in your nose. Somewhere out there is a book you would enjoy, a book you would love, a book so delightful you probably won’t sleep until you have finished savoring every page.
It’s waiting, hiding, sometimes cleverly sitting in plain sight. You whip around a corner and bounce! Nope, that’s not it. That’s just a Judy Blume. So, you move on. You’re getting close now. The book just ahead is witty, is intense, is a book you would love more than life itself. You can feel it, you can smell it, you can almost taste it.
There! You leap from your place of concealment and pounce on the book. Victory! You hold the book above your head and roar your triumph at fluorescent lights. Take that, you shout at the shelves of romance novels, I found good here, no thanks to you! And then, the magical moment when you lower your hands and take a long, lingering look at your catch, your delight, your bounty. It’s beautiful, it’s spectacular, it’s… Oh wait, never mind. You already have this one.
Happy birthday, Raquel! It seems like there should be way more I say here, but it feels all, like, personal and stuff. So just fill it all in and have a happy birthday.
…it’s my last Friday night as a twenty-one year old. That sounds like it should be exciting, doesn’t it? Hmm. Maybe I’ll go sort my sock drawer or something…
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