There's this internet blackout thing going on today. You heard about it? I'm not intentionally being flippant about the opposition regarding SOPA and Pipa -- honest.
In fact, I signed Google's petition and not because I'm all that AND a bag of chips on the internet or anything.
However, after nearly a decade of clicking the "publish" button (sounds way cooler than 9 years, right?) you probably already know: I.M.A. Dork.
Still, words like censorship and boycott make me itch.
So, taking a cue from Miss Zoot (because, she's pretty AND smart) I am going to visit my favorite blogs AND tell my online friends just how glad I am that they decided to click the "publish" button, today.
Unless, their blog is all blacked-out or until the contractor who's supposed to give us an estimate on a new-ish roof gets here (he's late) then I'll just tell them tomorrow.
Because, words really do matter and they ARE SO my blogging friends (DAMMIT!)
I saw this awesome writing exercise over at Ramblin' Red's blog and, taking into consideration that I do tend to get lost and sometimes feel as if I don't know if I'm coming or going (okay, a lot) also, I am currently, suffering from a slight case of summertime mommy brain (what, you too?!?) and seeing it's ONLY July 5th (I think) I've decided to give it a whirl.
There's a template of prompts to follow and, ideally, help to create something of myself, while reading like no other poem, in existence (we'll see) here we go:
I am from my Grandmother's freshly-ironed apron, from lemon Pledge and my father's record collection of Broadway musicals.
I am from a working class home, in a less than desirable neighborhood, where children were left to play in streets filled with the smell of smoked meat and pot holes, covered with cinder blocks and plywood, "borrowed" from construction sites, that were laid on top and fashioned into bike ramps, left to roast in the summertime heat.
I am from the fresh green smell of parsley root and the spiciness of Hungarian peppers, carefully planted in abundantly lush rows of raised beds, caressed by callused hands, then laid to rest in a make-shift green house of plastic wrap and leftover piping.
I am from chicken soup on Sundays and sharing stories with men and women (mostly true) made old before their time, while their children swung under willow trees, or chased each other among the hot dog carts, remembering grandparents they have never met, with strange sounding, yet familiar names, like Katkics and Kiss.
I am from that family, who never seemed to learn how to fully close windows and doors (especially, in the summertime) and would rather go to bed angry, or wake in silence, than have to face fighting, yet another day.
From this house, children must not be heard, but you must listen and do as I say, right or wrong, it's for your own good.
I am from kneeling while praying in church, as a punishment at home, or asking for forgiveness, having forgotten to cover my head, in an act of absolute humility, again.
I'm from New Jersey, the first generation to be born on American soil, by way of Hungarian immigrants, growing up in war torn streets and made world weary as teenagers, who then met each other, through surrogate family members, building on a strong foundation, for the love of family, whose roots are buried deep in Hungarian Goulash and Paprika, preferably Kalocsai.
From the grandmother who chose to immigrate to America, as the lesser of 2 evils, in an attempt to escape an abusive husband, by herself, with my mother and my Aunt Theresa (who was only 4 years-old at the time) sadly, from the man who eventually found them, and, though he has been dead to us, for over 20 years and, although I cried, having recently found his obituary, I am thankful that he is no longer on this earth.
I am from a secret place, deep inside the belly of a long-neglected room, hiding behind trunks of old clothes and 8 mm home movies, wearing my grandmother's stole, made of real mink (with their heads still attached) and trying on an old pair of peep-toed heels, listening to the furnace, as it comes to life behind me and consumes another shovelful of coal, granting me audience, as I pretend that my life is a movie, I become my own story.
Curiously enough, the photo (waaaaaaay up there) is from a showcase featured as Freedom and Liberty and, well, I thought it just sort of fits, you know?
Since I am ALL about sharing (shuddup Garth, not your real name!) my friend Shannon is doing it and now Diana's joining in (although, the non-conformist in me can't promise to, you know, write daily) I've decided to give it a whirl.
Today's prompt: Action -- when it comes to aspirations, it’s not about ideas. It’s about making ideas happen. What’s your next step?
Oh wow, great, well this one's easy (NOT!!!!) because, I've got SO MANY ideas rolling around in my head, right now.
Although, taking care of 6 people, living in a 7 room house, will do that to a person (Ty Pennington, WHERE ARE YOU?!?)
No, it's NOT about the ideas, or necessarily about making them happen, either (been there, done that) for me, the next step(s) in 2011 would be to:
Continue writing (i.e. blogging) the only way I know how, long before professing honesty and integrity was, you know, cool.
Maybe, even finish that book I started a couple of years ago (even though it feels like everybody's writing a book these days, really AWESOME stuff, too, right?) but, this one's a little different, as well!
Rinse ALL doubt from my mind (mostly)
Instead, focus on the ideas that inspire me and, hopefully, help me see those reluctant little aspirations of mine a little clearer -- not to mention, through, to the end.
Since I am ALL about sharing (shuddup Garth, not your real name!) and my friend Shannon is doing it (although, the non-conformist in me can't promise to, you know, write daily) I've decided to give it a whirl.
Today's prompt: Beautifully Different -- Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
I broke out the YouCam and snapped a picture, this morning (since, I showered and everything...you're welcome!!!)
Beautiful? I dunno. Different? Most definitely, from as far back as I can remember (oh, it's not THAT far, shuddup!)
I grew up speaking a different language, living on a street filled with nearly every ethnicity represented in the United Nations (today) and eating stuff that other folks would normally have trouble identifying (why, it's cow stomach soup, want some?)
Being different came, you know, naturally.
Beautiful? Hard for me to say. Different? Well, my right eye IS smaller than my left; my eyebrows are way too thick (imagine what they would look like if I did NOT tweeze them every dang-gone day!) oh, and my lips are a bit crooked (especially, when I smile)
UGH! Don't EVEN get me started on how LOOOOOONG it took me to grow into my nose (matches my crooked smile, perfectly) or, how the years are beginning to, you know, leave skid marks all over my face....DAMMIT!!!
[blows bangs out of left eye, scratches nose]
Then again, it's NOT the years, HONEY -- it's the mileage!!!
I've worked REAL hard to earn ALL those pretty little lines up there (i.e. I'm a mom) AND my kids seem to like me, this way (sort of) especially, because my left eye is almost always BIGGER than my right in every picture....which, of course, means that, you know....I am smiling.
Different? Yeah, we're good and did I mention I'm raising REAL pretty kids who ARE proving to be waaaay smarter than me?
Good thing, too, seeing as I've pretty much proved to them that they won't be able to earn a college education on, you know, their mother's good looks, alone.
[snort]
Thank goodness no one's thought to start charging us moms (and dads) for heavy eye baggage...YET!!!
Since I am ALL about sharing (shuddup Garth, not your real name!) and my friend Shannon is doing it (although, the non-conformist in me can't promise to, you know, write daily) I've decided to give it a whirl.
Today's prompt: Make -- what was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
We did A LOT of crafts when my kids were younger -- give a kid a piece of paper, a crayon and a couple of glue sticks, well, you ARE the Queen (or King) of Distraction -- especially, around the holidays.
As for things I want to make?
Well, we don't seem to have time to craft together as we used to (could be a bad, or good thing, depending on how you look at it) however, you are NEVER too old for paper chains and snowflakes, right?
Then, there are those pesky little home repair projects.
[blows bangs out of eyes]
Got a few minutes? There's a list. Somewhere. I just had it. I swear.
In all seriousness, Garth (not his real name) and I are hoping to make time to actually finish several projects we've started...um...a few years ago, or twenty, like:
The kitchen: there's the ceiling (i.e. actually put one up, or just paint the damned drywall, already) and the cabinets (oh, they're up, just old) these really DO need our immediate attention!
The bathroom: whose idea was it to wallpaper it, anyway? Oh wait, that would be me (shuddup Ty Pennington!)
Our bedroom: see kitchen notes (minus cabinets.)
Girls' bedroom: They're 17, 15 and almost 10, so the Barney colors have G2G (see bathroom notes!)
Dining room: In a moment of, "Do'oh, I just can't take it anymore," my husband came home from work, one day, and found the fugly brown rug rolled up at the curb, years ago. I was surprised to find a beautiful hardwood floor underneath that is now SCREAMING for a new coat of varnish (seriously, I hear it whimpering in my sleep!)
The livingroom: is in between the dining room and kitchen and, well, it would also be EXTREMELY jealous if we didn't, you know, pay its walls at least some attention, too.
Hence, the reindeer gift tag addressed to, "Daddy!"
[sound of crickets]
No, it's NOT a door! Besides, Garth (not his real name) and I adopted the "no gifting each other" rule this year (stupid economy!) it is, however, a BIG bunch of good intentions all wrapped up with a pretty little bow and everything!
One of the ladies at the gym watches The Good Wife and keeps insisting that I would probably love it, too.
"I dunno."
You see, besides feeling as if I couldn't possibly relate to anything using the words "good" and "wife" in the same sentence ("big" and "dork," probably) I also have commitment issues with television.
"What time is it on?"
By the time I get home from work, eat and get the kids settled for the night (i.e. get them to at least admit that, you know, it IS bedtime) it's too late.
"Did you watch, last night?"
[slaps forehead]
"D'oh, I forgot it was on."
Actually, I was probably too busy inspecting the inside of my eyelids and/or fighting Doofus-Dawg for the couch.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but..."
This week, however, I learned that work won't be as much of an issue, anymore. In fact, my schedule is about to lighten up, considerably, from 6 months ago.
"...the owner has decided to close up shop, at the end of the month."
Everyone in my family has made sacrifices (trust me, they will ALL tell you, I'm sure) and, well, it will be nice NOT to have to worry about feeling guilty, sort of.
"I'm really, really, sorry."
Long story, short (you're welcome) yeah, sure, the money helped (stupid braces, dumb car insurance, silly college fund) but, my working and being away from my house, 4 days, every week, was putting a real strain on my house.
"If only I had known, ahead of time."
So, in a way, losing this job is really [gulp] a good thing.
"I certainly wouldn't have offered you the hours!"
Having to call the ladies I recently hired (like, just 2 or 3 weeks ago) and tell them that, you know, they are now, un-hired...not so much.
"I'm really, really, sorry."
In fact, way too much.
"It's not your fault."
I am (or, was) the manager (and I use the term very, very loosely) I sorta knew his business wasn't doing very well. Still, I had such GREAT plans and worked really, really hard to keep his customers and employees happy.
"I feel like SUCH an a**hole..."
Man, un-hiring people really, really, does suck. By Tuesday night, I was SO done. I poured myself a glass of wine (i.e. turned the tap on the box) kicked the dog off the couch (sorry, Doofie) and just stared at the television.
"I like you...I didn't start off liking you."
Aaaand, then the part of the The Good Wife came on (see above clip) which made me think of an earlier conversation I had, with a longtime employee, who took pleasure in pointing out the stuff...I did wrong.
"One of the machines is in the wrong place."
Didn't matter if I re-arranged the ENTIRE gym (which, you're supposed to, once a month) without anyone's help and that she could have corrected it (her own self) right?
"You're not the a**hole, here, in fact, we ALL know you worked your a** off, Liz."
Look, I'm not comparing myself to The Good Wife -- that character is a lawyer and I am, well, you know -- however, working lots of hours, being away from her kids and having to work EXTRA hard, feeling as if she has to prove herself, to EVERYONE, because she's a mom.
[bites lower lip]
Yeah, I felt her pain - still do - sort of.
"Shouldn't HE be making these calls?"
My poor husband, Garth [not his real name] what a good guy he is, really.
"Why are YOU apologizing?"
I mean, I already quit trying to be the best wife, or the perfect mother, years ago and he's seems to be okay with it.
"Because, I am a good manager...DAMMIT!"
Or, at least, I was -- now, at least I can keep on pretending to be a good blogger/writer/whatever, right?
[sound of crickets chirping]
Sorry, I just can't seem to quit YOU...Internets...so, I guess you better start getting used to, you know, being stuck with me.
This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger. Today’s challenge was to take 15 minutes and write about your elementary school lunch.
It was 1946 and Hungary, as nearly all of Europe, was devastated by World War II, including the small hamlet where my mother attended kindergarten. My mother's earliest childhood memory, one of a very few that she will even speak of, is the day the Americans shipped a case of peanut butter to her school.
Each child was asked to line up and receive his, or her ration of peanut butter and then it was my mother's turn.
"Eva, where is your bread?"
My mother shyly whispered into her teacher's ear that she didn't have any; the local bakers ran out of their allotment of bread, earlier that morning.
"Well, what am I supposed to spread the peanut butter on, the palm of your hand?"
Growing up, we were used to hearing such stories at the dinner table -- how, even in a big city like Budapest, my father was forced to steal to feed his younger siblings -- still, I don't think that my twin brother and I ever really understood how difficult it was for my parents.
Thinking back on it now, I seemed to have developed a sort of school daze and I can't seem to remember where, or even what we ate for lunch.
However, I can tell you this: there was always plenty of peanut butter AND bread in our house.
This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger. Today’s challenge was to find a person in public and write a story around them.
"Where's your ticket?" the old woman croaked as she reached out her spotted hand and wiggled her boney fingers, filed razor-sharp and painted the color of congealed blood.
I nudged the children behind me, cleared my throat and replied, "We were told that we could buy tickets at the door."
Her thin lips quivered, as she let out a raspy sigh and replied, "Really?" Her breath smelled heavily of stale cigarette smoke and, in my mind's eye, I pictured her as one of the flesh-eating trolls my grandmother warned would come after us in our sleep, whenever my twin brother and I refused to eat our vegetables.
She raised one penciled-eyebrow and licked her lips; imagining me as her next meal, no doubt.
"Well, you were sadly misinformed."
She pushed back from the reception table and I swear, she made a rattling sort of sound, as if she were chained to the chair. I started to back away, surprised to see that the woman looked MUCH taller than I had imagined and came to the realization that I was indeed terribly wrong -- the woman WAS a very old dragon, trapped in human form.
"I'...uh...um...but..."
I bit my lower lip, knowing that, somehow, this was going to end badly and I scanned the room for an emergency exit.
"Do you have a ticket, or no?"
No, and no craft show was worth being dressed down by a fiery old dragon, right?
"No, DAMMIT."
The drab gray pashmina fell from her thin shoulders and revealed her long swan-like neck.
"That's okay, Sweetie."
She reached into a pouch which hung from a beautiful gold chain-linked belt that was wrapped around her tiny little waist.
"There is no admittance fee."
She pulled out 4 lollipops and handed them to each of my kids.
"Uh...um...but..."
Then, she handed me a bunch of tickets.
"Also, everyone gets a free raffle ticket, today."
I was going to protest -- there had to be at least a dozen tickets, or more -- but, I stared blankly at her warm smiling eyes and, well, I was ashamed to admit that the old woman wasn't a troll, or dragon at all.
"Besides, I can tell that you're having a really bad day."
She must be a mom.
[Note: Although, the conversation is a work of fiction, it is loosely based on an incident, IRL, that did indeed, go very badly. It's all good, though. She apologized. I forgave her. She WAS a mom.]
Mommy is not at her desk, right now and...d'oh...she asked me to...uh...excuse me a minute, puh-leeze.
BARK-BARK-WOOF-BARKITY-WOOF-WOOF!
D'oh, sorry 'bout that. Ah hates squirrels. Don't you? Anyways. Mommy is not here, I think and...um...d'oh yeah...ah remember now.
WOOF-WOOF-BARK-WOOFITY-BARK-BARK!
Stupid squirrels!
D'oh, aaaanyways, she's a little under the...um...couch...no, that's naught it...wait, ah remember now...she's under the...uh...wood chipper...d'oh...NO!...she's a little under the weather, that's right...d'oh...whatever that means.
SCRATCH-SCRATCH-SCRATCH!
D'oh, hello...wait a minute...do ah know you?
[heavy sigh]
D'oh yeah, ah remember now...um...ah'm supposed to tell you that you can always go visit her at someplace called The Imperfect Dawg...d'oh...that's naught right, either...'cause, everybody knows dawgs are perfect.
Until, her next email and I scanned down until I found my name on the blogging schedule -- on September 11.
Riiiiiight.
I can’t believe that it’s been 7 years, but I remember how terribly frightened I was -- living just across the bay from the World Trade Center in New York City -- with my two oldest already in elementary school and me home, alone, with a toddler and a 2 month old.
So, I sat down, stared at my laptop (pretty much like I’m doing now) then, closed my eyes and just listened.
Here’s what I heard:
There’s music playing -- its rhythm is slow and solemn, like the beat of a broken heart -- a moment of silence breaks into the sadness, as the hour turns dark and the names of strangers are carried on the wind.
I hear them all and try to focus on every syllable -- but, I cannot watch.
Voices are broken -- shattered to pieces and lost among the tears -- but, I listen and try to ignore the pain, fearing the smallest interruption in thought as nothing less than an injustice.
There are so many names -- male, female, officers, citizens -- a bell tolls, as they continue remembering and move on in the alphabet.
They are only on the letter B.
Someone is speaking now -- remembering her brother and his wonderful barbecued chicken -- the family never stops thinking of him. Every day. Every month. Every year. They miss him.
A man is speaking of community, now.
He quotes that “No man is an island,” -- how appropriate and terribly sad -- the names keep coming. On and on they are quietly read by friends, lovers, sisters, brothers and colleagues.
I think I see their faces.
A mother begins to cry and I feel as if I can’t hold on, any longer -- my head is starting to hurt -- but, I continue to listen, to imagine and to mourn.
They’re on the letter C, now.
The same surname has just been read four times and I can’t help and think -- I hope they weren’t related. But, then again, it doesn’t matter. They are joined together, now. In eternal peace and in memory.
Another fire fighter is remembered -- and another -- so many!
The names are beginning to run together -- another fire fighter and brother -- but, I listen and wait for, well, I don’t know what. The goosebumps to stop, perhaps?
Please, stop.
Oh God, this man is assuring his friend -- a police or port authority officer, I think -- that he is missed and that his wife is doing a wonderful job of raising their baby, now much more grown and still loving him.
I think of my youngest child -- 2 months old, at the time -- and how scared I was for her, my 3 year--old son, and my two oldest daughters. I remember calling their school -- they were in kindergarten and 1st grade -- wondering if my babies were safe and needing to hold them.
Later, the children were released -- the teachers wearily handing off each and every one -- we stayed behind to be sure that everyone had someone to hug.
No one could speak.
The skies turned quiet and I can still remember the strong smell of death -- it is beyond disgusting -- as the nightmare unfolded not too far from our own backyards.
We drove to the waterfront -- as so many of our neighbors did, that day -- and the skyline looked positively alien. What was once bright and shiny, was now black. Nothing more than that. Not much has changed.
They are on the letter D, now.
I hear the music, again -- but, having grown accustomed its quiet lull -- it doesn’t hurt so much, now. No peace, though. Still. I want to forgive. But, will never forget.
My name is Liz and I have been blogging at This Full House of mismatched socks and crunchy feet since 2003. This is where I enjoy writing about the trials and tribulations of raising 3 teens, 1 tween and killer dust bunnies. I also manage a shopping/lifestyle blog where I share information on products and services that perhaps help make life for families (like mine) a little easier. Feel free to stay a while, but mind the killer dust bunnies -- THEY BITE!!!
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