Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Parenting’ Category

Abracadabra

Posted in Baking, Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Parenting, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on April 25, 2014| 13 Comments »

Turns out I’m a jet setter.

 

What a shame it would be to visit the fair city of Dublin simply to tour a recycling plant. Am I right? Yes, I’m right. And, because we’ve stockpiled enough points through our evil plastic cards to jet me there for “free”, I’m left with no choice but to swoop in and save the day for my overworked man.

 

This trip was booked very last minute and I’ve been in crazy town trying to get ready for it. Leaving 18, 15 and 13 year old siblings alone for ten days just isn’t as fun as it may sound. Sure, I get to take off into the wild blue yonder, but I’ll be far from carefree.

 

Bills have to be paid. (It’s always nice when the credit cards actually work and the kids are able to flick a switch rather than a lighter to see where they’re going) Emergency cash tucked away (it will be interesting to see what they deem an emergency – pizza anyone?), oodles of food (I use that word loosely), plenty of toilet paper, heaven forbid, a calendar glowing like a string of Christmas lights with multi-colored bulbs encircling the 50 events that could apparently happen at no time other than the ten days we’ll be thousands of miles away, clean clothes, rides organized, laws laid and riots read.

 

Then there’s the baking guilt. Guilt that’s been rising ever since I found out I was going away without them. Thank goodness I haven’t known for long, thank you, oh kind travel Gods, but I still can’t help myself. After all, our last two trips to the greenest of isles are amongst our family’s most treasured memories, so it’s hard to feel good about leaving anyone behind. You know, Ohana n’ all.

 

Luckily though, I’m not made of 100% pure patheticester. I am looking forward to quality time with my husband who is meeting me there after being away for the last week on business and to seeing the many family members I have living in the North.

 

Anytime guilt can be presto’d into something sweet smelling, warm and comforting we’ve uncovered a glistening, no-stick lining, have we not? And, I don’t know about you, but I’m big into magical baking.

1422549_10152175981008392_5322679628157757439_n

 

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

Lucky Lady

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Parenting, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on April 17, 2014| 15 Comments »

While my daughter’s sweaty palms grip the plastic covered arms of a dental chair and she is inflicted with crazy kinds of torture, I sit, a few hundred yards away, in our local diner, somehow lucky enough to snag a deliciously cozy booth at the very back.

 

My intent was to hunt and gather, to try and squash three hours worth of errands into one, to rush. But, as we were leaving the house, my laptop somehow hitched a ride and I’m now imbibing on the creativity a morning away from home is able to squeeze out of my juicer.

 

It’s a writer’s dream. A secluded booth, back to the wall, a bird’s eye view of the little man who looks like someone I once knew, the adult daughter treating her elderly parents to breakfast, the middle-aged couple deep in some mysterious conversation that can only be cultivated by being together longer than they’ve been apart.

 

I relish the comforting heedlessness cloaked in hustle and bustle. No one’s worrying what I’m up to. No one cares how long I stay. No one wants me to stop. The server happily refills my cup as if as much to say; Yes, yes, write to your heart’s content my dear, for you are forbidden to do chores here. (I think she even had a glittering wand)

 

Now this is the point where we all imagine the sound a record player makes as its needle is abruptly lifted, scraping over several vinyl grooves on the way up.

 

I started this post yesterday morning, but just moments after deciding my waitress was in fact the good witch, my writing came to a halt. As it often does, life happened and for the next twelve hours, I was in the thick of it. Somersaulting from one thing to another, I never touched these keys again for the rest of the day.

 

But the good thing about being at this stage of my writing game is that I’m nobody. I have no obligations, no duties or requirements.

 

So basically, the pressure is off. I’m *too small to fail.

Photo courtesy of wallaadoo.com Photo courtesy of wallaadoo.com

 

 

*”I’m too small to fail” the slogan on the t-shirts the servers wear at my local diner.

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

Joplin and A Java

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Women's Literature, Writers, Writing, tagged , on April 11, 2014| 7 Comments »

*This piece is part of an ongoing short story*

I hope you’ll read parts one through five HERE!

 

Smoke shrouds her shaky, short pink fingernails, curls up past her nose and out the open window into the blue of the great big sky. Her view turns murky as she shoots a smooth, straight line at the windshield in front of her.

Coffee.

Joplin booms. Gladys signals left.

And baby deep down in your heart I guess you know that it ain’t right,
Never, never, never, never, never, never hear me when I cry at night…

“Black.”

The waitress looks disappointed. The place is empty. This will likely be her only chance at a tip ‘til lunchtime.

“Just the coffee then?” Her pencil is poised hopefully over a badgered notepad.

“Black.”

With the waitress gone, the sun glares into Gladys’ face and without the breeze, it’s incredibly warm. She shifts to the other side of the booth. Her stomach, a mind of its own, doesn’t follow. Her hands flutter like an indecisive butterfly, mimicking the thoughts flying through her mind.

She’d promised herself a sole slug, so it was important to wait for the cup to land in front of her. If she sipped straight from the flask, she’d want another in no time. She’d wait. She could wait.

The cup does eventually come, full to the rim. She’d forgotten that black meant no room for cream. She tips a little more than she should out onto the saucer and, as discreetly as possible, adds a generous pour into the steaming liquid. Her eyes close as the sharp vapor reaches her nostrils.

And, she sips.

But, it’s gone before she’s even had time to think. Time to decide why she’s really here. Time to convince herself that she shouldn’t just turn around and go home.

She could go home.

She could sit on the couch with her book and sip away. She could make beans and toast. She could watch True Detective. She could talk to Helena.

Helena.

Take another little piece of my heart now, baby.
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now, darling…

Gladys looks for the waitress. She’ll pay her check. Get back in the car. Drive.

She spots her over by the register, posing herself in such a way that the cook can ogle her without much effort.

Where is Damien when I need him? Gladys wonders as she heads for the till.

il_340x270.575925202_lvz7

Read Full Post »

No Sinead

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Women's Literature, Writers, Writing, tagged , on April 9, 2014| 8 Comments »

~ This piece is part of a short story ~

You can read Part One, Helena, HERE

Part Two, Gladys, HERE

Part Three, Mrs. Statton, HERE

Part Four, Eat Crow, HERE

 

Helena picks at the jagged piece of blue vinyl poking up from the empty side of her bus seat. Sure, Gladys had driven that first day of school, but now that her duty’s done, Helena is on her own. She doesn’t mind. She’d taken a long, hot shower this morning and had the mirror all to herself. Gladys, apparently long gone, had texted her to point out the obvious – bananas on counter, yogurt in fridge.

Forgoing sustenance, Helena had instead wrapped her slight fingers around the thick white handle of the carafe on the counter and poured herself a cup of steamy black coffee.

Now, her collar damp from her still wet hair, she shivers as the bus ride makes the liquid roll in her stomach.

Pulling the cord, she gets off at the stop before the one closest to the school and inhales before venturing on. She’d done something. Something that had seemed like a good idea. Well, not a good idea maybe so much as something she hadn’t been able to stop. The secrets had poured from her fast and furious, like the coffee out of the pot, dark and scalding. And now it’s too late. There they are, black and bitter.

Her bag pulls at her shoulder as she walks and her hair begins to sway as it starts to dry. She can smell the shampoo Gladys buys in the huge blue tub wafting in the breeze. Although the sun is out she shivers again, the damp now reaching the middle of her back.

Unaware of her fingers, she twists and twirls several strands before choosing just the right one to pluck from the bunch.

“You should leave some on your head,” a voice from behind her calls out. “Most people look better with hair.”

“Not interested.” Helena answers and keeps walking.

“Well, except maybe Sinead O’Connor. I have to admit she’s hot bald. A little old now maybe, but still…hot.”

Without turning around, Helena replies; “Like I said, I’m not interested in what you think of me or Sinead or our hair. Piss off.”

“Well, pick away then,” the voice continues. “But fair warning – you’re no Sinead.”

Sin-ad-O-Connor-sinead-oconnor-35217109-1000-1001

Read Full Post »

Grounder

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Facebook, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Parenting, Short Stories, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on April 8, 2014| 16 Comments »

When I was a kid, I hated P.E. I’d do anything to avoid it – hide, duck, dodge…take cover in the outfield…behind a tree if at all possible.

 

Not much has changed. I’m forty-three and I’ve dropped the ball. It’s been eleven days since I last posted something to my blog and even that post was only a simple snap of my husband’s conveniently timed typo’d text.

 

I’ve been neglectful of reading blogs, answering messages, posting to my facebook page and I haven’t checked my Hazy email in months. I opened it the other day, saw that there are over five thousand tidy little envelopes in my inbox to sift through and quickly closed it again.

 

I’d like to say that it’s because I’ve been buried in writing, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been doing much of anything. Trapped in a roundabout, I keep missing my exit, running the vicious circle without escape.

 

I get overwhelmed by having so many projects that I don’t know where to begin and end up not starting, working on or completing any of them. My kitchen cupboards need a good gutting of all the cumulative bits and bobs that somebody, not me of course, keeps sneaking in, I have a desk to paint, I need to dismantle my son’s massive loft bed so he can stop sleeping with his nose half an inch from the ceiling, I have an office that has morphed into one over-sized junk drawer and don’t even get me started on the garage. No really, I don’t want to start on the garage.

 

And I can’t type of course, while all of these undone tasks have my fingers tied together with their loose ends, but for the one thing I have no choice in, (thank goodness for deadlines!) my upcoming interview on WOW. My runner-up short story, Magic, and my ridiculous bio, can be found HERE. The interview itself, should be published sometime in April or early May.

 

If it weren’t for my blog and contest excitement, I’m not so sure I’d be writing at all, so today I give thanks for the side of me that apparently wants people to know my name and to the entities that grant me a voice, ensuring I’m heard above my own silence.

ribbon_red_runner_up_to_customize_ornament-r64d1819344ff431bb8a3d9d87817d545_x7s2y_8byvr_512

Read Full Post »

Eat Crow

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on March 21, 2014| 6 Comments »

Part One, Helena, is HERE

Part Two, Gladys, is HERE

Part Three, Mrs. Statton, is HERE

—

It’s just like any other day, Gladys decides as she applies her mascara, lifting each lash to its fullest extent. She fills the arch of her brow and shimmers her cheekbones before taking another sip of her lukewarm coffee.

Except it isn’t really. Today, she won’t be there to pick Helena up from school. She won’t be home to make dinner. And she may not even be back to watch the season finale of True Detective.

Her tummy does a bit of a flip. She smooths down the front of her blouse, smacks her lips and heads for the kitchen. After chucking her half full mug in the sink, she rummages through her purse and manages to round up sixteen dollars. Quickly scrawling something to the effect of get whatever this will buy you for dinner on a piece of scrap paper, Gladys takes one swig from the flask tucked behind the empty fridge and heads for the door.

Lying at the bottom of a stack of paperwork that’s taken me through ‘til nearly lunchtime, I come across a cluster of pages stapled together, sporting a hot pink Post-it. It’s covered with Mr. Crawford’s loosely looped handwriting – Stephanie, You need to read this, he advises. It’s a doozy.

I glance wistfully at the clock on the wall across from my desk. As tempted as I am to dive into the text, I know I don’t have time. I scan my calendar for a prompt on my lunch appointment and am reminded of what an unfortunate name Mr. Anass is for a high school Principal.

As the school Counselor, I’ve seen my fair share of varied troubling data, but have never been passed a student essay before. I sigh. It’ll have to wait. I tuck it into my briefcase, take a sip from my water bottle and set out to Manger Corbeau, where Anass will be waiting. During the drive I muse over the possible scenarios that could have led to naming the restaurant Eat Crow, but fail to come up with anything plausible.

It makes sense that it’s Anass’ favorite place to eat.

Eat Crow

Read Full Post »

Mrs. Statton

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on March 18, 2014| 11 Comments »

Part One, Helena, is HERE

Part Two, Gladys, is HERE

—

“We got a new girl today.” My blade presses through the taught, red skin. “She’s a bit tragic, I think.”

“And what makes you think that?” Rick asks, sipping his wine, eyes widening over the rim of the glass.

“Well, I’m not sure, really. She just seems so…independent.”

“And independent translates to tragic for you?” His eyes get even bigger.

“Okay, maybe she’s not tragic. Maybe her situation is tragic.”

“So, what’s her situation, exactly?”

Juice mists my fingers as the red pepper splits into halves and falls open on the cutting board.

“God, I don’t really know that either, I guess. Her mother didn’t tell us much.”

“Well, I think one of us is drunk, Steph cuz I don’t get it.” He grins and pours himself another.

Stephanie contemplates the thinning hair and mangle of bracelets, the easy blush and her eagerness to get the usually dreaded classroom antics out of the way.

“Honestly, there isn’t an issue to speak of. I just felt this, I dunno, gap between her and her mother. And Helena, well, she’s…ugh, okay I’m going back to my first thing – tragic.”

“But, is she hip?” Rick asks, swirling his wine.

I begin to answer before I realize he’s taking a stab, slipping in a joke about his once favorite band.

“Ha ha. You’re just hilarious.”

Rick circles the granite island and wraps his arms around her from behind.

“Steph, like you said, this Helena is…what was it? Independent? I’m pretty sure she’d want for you to enjoy your Friday night. Not to be thinking about her. I can guarantee she’s not thinking about you right now. Besides, your man here is gettin’ All Tore Up over the smell of that sauce.” He squeezes her a little tighter.

She pretends not to notice his second ‘Hip’ reference

Helena lies on the floor of her room, the pile of hair growing beside her, and wonders if Mrs. Statton will notice she’s added two new bracelets to her wrist.

Halved Red Pepper

Read Full Post »

Gladys

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on March 14, 2014| 17 Comments »

If you’d like to read Helena first, click here.

– – –

Ms. Harris perches at a small table, rolling melting ice cubes around in her short glass, vacantly staring in the direction of the empty chair across. Her lips purse as she surrenders to the realization he isn’t going to show…again.

“One more round, Gladys?”

It’s why she comes here. They know she’s not done, but are polite enough to ask as though she might be.

“Absolutely, Damien. Just one more.”

“Food today?”

“I’ve decided I won’t be here long.”

He gives the empty seat the same look she had, nods and heads to the bar.

Gladys. She’s never loved her name. Never understood how someone could look into a tiny newborn’s face and choose Gladys, but still, she prefers it to Ms. Harris. She’d been tempted many times over the years to return to her maiden name, but couldn’t bear to be separated from Helena, even if only by title.

She adjusts her blouse and crosses her legs.

Helena.

They certainly did not need to add different surnames to the long list of things they didn’t have in common. Besides, it would seem their name is all that held them together at times and Gladys never took that for granted.

She picks up her phone. No messages. She’s not surprised. He’s never had any respect.

Tempted to text her daughter, she puts the phone in her bag. The last thing Helena had said to her before entering the school this morning was; ‘I’m fine. Stay out of it.”

And, she’d tried. All these years she had tried to stay out of it, but had never quite managed. Had never had a choice. He’d made sure of that.

Damien returns with a whiskey on the rocks. Her second. And her last for today. Despite being unwanted, she’d be there waiting for Helena to emerge once the school day was done.

Eyeing up the shot, she waits for the ice to weaken the sting.

ice cubes 3

Read Full Post »

Helena

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on March 8, 2014| 15 Comments »

If you’d like to read Gladys, which could be considered part two of Helena, click here after reading below:

– – –

It’s a small smile, but enough to show me that her two front teeth overlap. She stands a distance from her mother’s side, trying desperately not to look at either of us.

“I’m sure Helena will be welcomed with open arms, Ms. Harris. In fact, I’ll see to it that she is.”

I smile warmly, but the girl blushes from head to toe and moves farther away. She absently pulls her hair, strand by stand, dropping each one to the floor as it comes out at the root and it’s suddenly clear why there are sparse patches scattered across her scalp.

“Helena, stop.” Her mother’s whisper is sharp. “Remember what I said.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but the girl turns a deeper shade of red and I can’t help but wonder if she’ll be alright here.

“Nothing to worry about.” I reassure her. “You’ll be fine.”

Ms. Harris’ lips tighten. She turns to Helena and brushes roughly at her blazer, pulls on her tie.

“Well Helena, I’m off. And for heaven’s sake, keep your hands out of your hair.” With that she walks away, leaving the girl gaping after her. No hug. Not so much as a good-bye.

“You’ve got lovely hair.” I tell her as we head into my office. I walk to the chair behind my desk. “It’s so straight.” I reach up to my own curly mop and laugh.

She stands until I ask her to sit.

“We’ll head to your class when you’re ready.” I offer when I notice her eyeing the door.

“I’m ready.”

“Really? Because we can sit here for a while. Talk. There’s no rush.”

She pulls at her hair, adjusts her glasses and stands.

“No, I’d like to go now if that’s okay.”

The walk to Mr. Roy’s room is quiet, no one in the halls, just the sound of Helena’s loose laces slapping the floor.

“Your mother didn’t tell me much, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry about her. She’s like that.”

“Have you signed up for any of our teams? Or enrolled in the book club?”

“I suck at sports and book club is social suicide for someone like me. I don’t need any help being unpopular.” Her tone is well beyond her years.

We reach Mr. Roy’s door and Helena finally looks at me.

“I’m okay on my own.”

Several bracelets slide out from under her jacket sleeve and circle her thin wrist as she reaches for the doorknob.

“Helena…”

“Absolutely no jewelry allowed. Yeah, I know. I read the rules before I got here.”

“Yes, you’re right, but what I was going to say is, you know where my office is if you need anything.”

She enters the classroom and from the hall I hear her say; “What are you lookin’ at? Never seen a baldy, four-eyed, new girl before?”

I think of Ms. Harris and how Helena had stood so far away from her. How her mother had been so rough, how she hadn’t said good-bye. I think of her tight lips and her stern whisper and I know now, Helena has always been okay on her own.

bracelets

Read Full Post »

It’s Not About Time

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Parenting, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged on January 30, 2014| 12 Comments »

Time.

There’s not enough. It doesn’t exist.

We’ve all thought that, felt that, said that and believed that on random occasion, specific days and every time we attempt to follow our dreams.

And when we think in terms of days, we’re right. There are precious few hours to commute, work, parent, clean, shop and participate. When we rest our overtaxed heads on our feathery pillows at the end of a task-checking day, we do in fact deserve to sigh a deep sigh of contentment and completion.

Alright, content maybe, but complete? That’s the question of the month, of the year…of our lives, really.

Are we complete?

I truly love what has evolved to be my fundamental flannel onesie. Being a wife, being a mom, being a make-up artist, being what I’ve always meant to be.

But am I complete?

Are you?

I have penned poetry and prose on lined tattered pages, wielding a short pencil dented with teeth marks. I’ve printed my work on dot-matrix line printers and typed on a Macbook Air.

It’s been twenty-seven years.

There’s time.

The time shall pass anyway

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »