MelSanBlog

Animals

2006-02-16T07:46:00.000-08:00

I wish I could have a dog. I want to worry every time the front door opens.
I'd like to spend unkown hours of my life chasing a belligerent hairball through the streets in view of all my neighboring acquaintances! I yearn for the smell of dirty dog and pine for the day I can huddle indefinitely - in the wind and rain - clutching a grocery sack and crap scooper. I want to be awakened by a yap so that I can slap at the noise in exhausted rage. Let's not forget the famous dog fart. Nothing compares to the silent delight of the odor that came from nowhere... My envy of all dog owners knows no bounds.

I liken it to the joys of a bird. The ubiquitous seed hulls and underfeathers littering the floor and nearby surfaces. The ear-piercing shrieks that rise from rare silence during a business phonecall or important news. Only the finest of pets would think to defecate in their drinking water on an hourly basis.

Lest I be neglectful, I must include in my poetic rantings the evil feline who compresses the backs of the couch cushions in refusal to slumber elsewhere but in the bay window. The glorious cat hair so tightly woven into the fibers of an otherwise unused furnishing brings me unspeakable gladness. Not as much as my new hillbilly blinds - visible from the street. Carefully cat-crafted eight-inch square holes at each end of the window treatment from months of being bent back during closure - finally to break off altogether. Custom-made beauty for all to enjoy. Not as much as discovering the clean basket of socks from which emanates the unmistakable perfume of ammonia left by the beloved creature that prefers only clean laundry for relieving itself.

Yes, give me the animal for my home. The olfactory delight, the seething rage and inconvenience that only a housepet can bring. Give me domestic animal or give me DEATH!

Screen Doors & More...

2005-05-31T04:11:00.000-07:00

Here I sit - in the ridiculous early morning hours of May 31st, unable to sleep, and pondering the futility of chasing away my personal demons. Would I love to be out cold right now like the hundreds of people living around me? Sure. Will I attempt it? No. Am I insane? Probably. My solution? Write another inane story/profile/essay that someone will read after I'm dead. That's how it works, isn't it?

This week, as I devoured my latest issue of People magazine, I chewed on a morsel of useless trivia - my favorite pasttime. Anyway, apparently Emily Dickinson, the poet, wrote 1789 poems in her lifetime, and only eleven were published BEFORE her death. That's a loaded piece of information. It absolutely illustrates the near- impossible task of getting your ideas into print. No, I am not presuming that I have even a speck of Emily Dickinson's talent - I'm a lot of things, but delusional is not one of them. Reflecting on the fact that death causes a person to become far more interesting than anyone thought they were during their breathing years, I am. That's how Yoda would put it, probably. Yoda has inspired in me a new way to avoid beginning sentences with "I." Predicate first, confuse your reader, hold their attention a couple of seconds longer. There you have it.

I am going to break for another paragraph at this point - primarily because it is customary to do so. I hate paragraphs, topic sentences, main ideas, and the contrived detail-oriented structure that ought to ensue. The only people who hate it more are the collection of teachers in my wake who acquired their first gray hairs while attempting to teach it to me. It isn't that I don't "get" it, it's just that I don't care. Why should I be concerned with making certain that the baloney I have to say fits into a structured setting? You may as well put up barbed wire and ask me to chew a cud. It's not going to happen, and that's how it would feel if it did.

Fortunately I cannot produce a cud. If I could, I would have something else to do right now. Digestion is important, right? Why not actively participate in the process.? Our hooved companions may be onto something. The only problem is that I am not eating at this point in time. Not much anyway, so I don't have much use for the whole subject. It would, however explain why I have a horrible gnawing sensation deep in my stomach. It matches the horrifying gnawing going on in my mind. Are the two connected? No doubt.

Speaking of No Doubt, Gwen Stefani can be blamed, in part, for my suffering. You see, I have a large photo of her plastered to my calendar. She is thin and beautiful. Something I would like to be during my upcoming vacation. Keep laughing, I sure am. It would seem that the diet I am on is working, but not as quickly as I would like it too. You see, I have lost inches in nearly every part of my body over the past four months, but for some reason, my arms don't want to participate. They'd rather remain sausage-like and, well, just generally gross. How am I supposed to don a bathing suit and relax by a pool when my arms are going to flop me off of my lounge chair the second I put them to rest. Talk about embarrassing.

I'm used to embarrassment. It's a healthy part of life - and it's blog fodder. However, I have always prided myself on not doing one particular thing over the past 30-odd years. That thing being walking into closed glass doors or screens. My mother is a professional. She can mash herself into a plate of glass with staggering ability. (no pun intended) Little did I know that my participation in the laughter that would immediately follow, was setting up bad karma. Or sowing bad seeds, taunting fate. Take your pick.

Anyway, it all caught up with me. About a month ago, I left my husband on the patio so I could grab some reading material. For some reason - we suspect rapidly declining eyesight - I bashed into the screen door and bounced off with such force that I experienced negative gravity for a fleeting moment in time. The next day, I noticed that some of the screen was ripped from the frame. I attempted to blame this on the cat, but nobody bought it. Then, like in some horrible nightmare, I repeated the episode at a neighbor's house - not even two weeks later.

Now, I like these people, and try to be on my best behavior - something that seems to backfire without exception. The really awful part about it was that this time, I didn't bounce off the screen. I just plain took it out.

It all happened because I spotted my preschooler playing with the water dispenser on their hi-tech refrigeration extravaganza - at least that's how my kids view it. Anyway, I sprung from my chair - while still keeping eye contact with a friend - and plowed right through the screen, taking the entire frame with me into their family room. Before I knew what hit me - I mean, what I hit - I was on the floor wondering if I should pull out some cash or write a check. Fortunately for me, they were on top of the whole situation. With their camera.

Now, how does a person recover from a situation wherein they've just destroyed the patio door of a neighbor's brand new home, and they are lying on the floor in front of seven people laughing/crying. There's no graceful way to do it. So I just lay there like roadkill for about fifteen minutes, waiting for the crowd to dissipate. What my husband has asked me a number of times since the incident is how I managed it. "How does a five-foot-two-inch, 115 pound woman charge through wire and metal with such force that it would result in such a disaster? Didn't you think that at the first sign of resistance that maybe you should stop?" My answer... If you're going to do something, do it all the way.

Just like this blog. Will it never end?

Chaos Theory

2005-05-16T20:43:00.000-07:00

I am a firm believer in chaos theory. I'll admit, the extent of my knowledge of it goes little beyond anything Jeff Goldblum's character, Ian Malcolm, had to say about it in the first Jurassic Park movie. Despite this fact, I am convinced that it is what makes the world go round. Why? I experience it all the live-long day. Push out three kids in less than four years and you will see what I mean.

It seems that despite the fact I do little else besides clean this house all day - every day - you couldn't really tell if you were to show up at my front door at any random point in time. It has been said that a butterfly flapping its wings can result in a hurricane (or some other heinous weather phenomenon) in an entirely different hemisphere. If this is true, the whole concept seems to be magnified when one attempts to fight such a reality.

For instance, I get up at around 6AM every morning. I begin doing laundry, clean my kitchen and prepare to bathe and dress the kids. Groomed for the day, the kids and I begin our various routines. They do school at the bar, while I continue to labor as women, (and yes, some of you men too) have for thousands of years - preparing food and tackling messes I never made. There is forever Play Doh to be found in obscure places, videos to be re-cased, XBox cords to be wound up, craft paper clippings to vacuum, etc.. Forget that the cats can't eat without getting crunchy refuse all over THREE rooms of the house, and incessantly spill their water. I own the two clumsiest cats in all of creation, but that's another story.

Beyond that, once in a while, you just have to cover your dining room table with every photograph you've taken in the past twelve years and decide what to do with it. If you put them away, you will not take on the project again until you have grandkids. So, even on a good day, an unfinished project makes domestic perfection is impossible.

Anyway, by around dinnertime the house is actually quite comely - to the naked eye - but the effect of a friend or neighbor's door opening causes cosmic disaster. Several times a week, someone invariably will drop in for a visit. Now mind you, this is a GOOD thing, but I swear that the opening of that door and the mixing up of the air in my corner of the neighborhood causes that butterfly effect on a microcosmic level. My daughter will immediately spill a pitcher of grapejuice on the kitchen floor, and my four-year old son will start pulling dirty socks and stale popcorn out from beneath the couch. Of course, he spends the rest of his free waking hours cramming things UNDER the couch, but in these eerie situations, he reverts to antitype. Suddenly my toddler's face will become encrusted with extraordinary booger content and everyone's hair gets messed up. It even seems as though I suddenly become bloated to double my size. It doesn't matter what I do to keep my life/home/children/physical state in order, chaos theory's heinous undercurrent has a cruel omnipotence that takes over.

The doorbell rings. My stomach jumps, heart races, and head spins. Two friends from across the street have come to present a gift and visit for a bit. However, I cannot enjoy this experience because for one, my formerly clean, quiet children are now covered in some filth, and my guests are standing in the sticky spot left over from wiping up the grape-juice. I suddenly notice crumbs and messes expanding through the house before my eyes, that minutes ago, were simply a part of a concentrated cooking area.

When company decides to depart, my youngest child - normally very polite and demure, will corner them in the living room and tell them the story behind every scab on her body, while picking her nose. Hopefully they don't notice what she has pulled out of her left nostril because they are also tripping over game-controller cords and disc that have been unraveled and strewn about with uncanny precision.

By the same token, if my husband and I are enjoying cocktails and cigars out in the backyard, predictably, our most religious acquaintances will show up with their kids and two dogs during their evening walk to "see the new patio." My kids will be insanely excited to see their kids, open the front door and lead them to the backyard instead of just telling us that someone knocked. Any amount of training or threatening aimed at them in the past against doing this is deleted from their minds by Chaos' intervention. Of course, to top it off, I have very likely just removed my bra and tossed it toward the picnic table so that I can relax.

It's like that one morning that you go to out to pick up a box of tampons and some root beer without doing any self preparation. This is the day you will run into a high school nemesis you haven't seen in thirteen years. You won't be able to avoid her either. The old teenage dynamics are faded, but not gone, and she's so happy to see you looking like crap, that she comes over in her tailored dress and fresh nails to inquire about you. Of course, it's the first day of your period, so you're wearing your husband's old dirt bike racing jersey because it covers your fat butt, and to top it off, you thought you could pull off keeping last night's makeup on for the trip. Not to mention, you are carrying seven pounds of extra water weight - mostly in your face. Forget that you'll never see her again but the entire class of 1991 will hear about how you've let yourself go. She won't miss a single detail about you, and it will get back to you in two years once the initial unflattering truth is completely mangled into horrifying rumor-status tripe.

As I sit here smiling at the futililty of all of life's menial efforts, my heart begins racing. Apparently, the kids haven't let the cats out today, and I've just spotted one of them - out of the corner of my eye - relieving herself in the hamper. Time to go, someone's on their way over.

The Light

2004-12-10T23:31:00.000-08:00

The little girl wore brown buckle shoes and a matching wool coat. She crawled up the vinyl seat into the back of the old station wagon while her mother held the door open. Lifting her arms in the air, she patiently waited for her seat buckle to clasp and tighten around her waist. The heavy door slammed shut and an image of her mother's gait appeared in her mind as she listened to the crunching pea gravel beneath the young woman's feet.

With a turn of the ignition, the cold car roared to life and idled a few minutes. It smelled of motor oil and dampness. Unable to see out the windows because of her tiny stature and the deep backseat, she stared at the brown and green plaid upholstery surrounding the scratched chrome pull handle next to her. The door lock rattled back and forth in its socket. She focused on her mother's attractive, platinum blond hair beyond the bench seat in front of her - a comforting break in the grayness of the morning.

Although every day was not as drab and cold as this one, an inherent sadness never left her. It was all she knew - and she'd not find out until much later in life that it was unusual to always feel melancholic. As the tires rolled up onto the pavement from the dirt lane, her mind retreated to the spherical darkness that was the focus of her curiosity. Though her eyes remained open, the surrounding reality began to fade as the station wagon cruised the winding country road. She now focused only on the blackness in her mind and the white line that began to spread across the center of it. She tried to guess what could lie beyond those boundaries, but even more importantly, what the white, linear image in the center of it might be. It was light - though not necessarily an illumnation as much as a colorless line with a dimension all itsz own. Not reaching all the way to the left or the right of the black sphere, it remained suspended, unmoving.

Her mind revolved around all sides of that projection similar to the way a cinematographer rotates around an actor to create an intense screen presence. Inside the depths of her chest she felt her soul being drawn to the line. She passed through it slowly. Inside of it she began to see vivid scenes from her own life - herself from an outside perspective, also her parents and a few mundane activities she participated in during the course of her brief existence.

The car careened around a hairpin turn on their route home. Momentarily distracted, she refocused on the white line. Remaining drawn to a very specific location, she could not pass through anywhere to the left of the place she emerged from. The point began to glow and develop a spherical light. It felt warm and secure. While staring at it, she became acutely aware of her existence and that she had a beginning. She approached the glowing sphere at its point in the center of the linear projection and rested there. Although she could now see images of herself and her family again, a new understanding emerged, telling her she was resting at the point of her beginning. Turning around to face the other direction, there was only a deep void. Almost audibly, questions began to echo in her mind,

"Where were you before these images begin?"

"Why is there only blackness to the left?"

"What happens if you walk forward into the images?" A squeezing feeling inside of her chest grew in intensity, manifesting a deep feeling of homesickness - not for home or even a place exactly, but for a time.

She remained enveloped in an intense state of analysis as the thoughts continued to flood her preschool mind.

"Where had she come from, why and for what reason?"

Numbness and fatigue inundated her being. Sunddenly, the familiar screech of the rear passenger door ripped her back into reality as the icy winter air slapped her bare legs. The images and questions retreated to the recesses of her mind as her mother carried her through the back door of their old home.

Sleep Deprived

2004-10-29T00:33:00.000-07:00

Dad slammed the front door and stood motionless in the entryway of his home, bracing for the impact of his three children who would immediately attack him like fruit flies devouring a shriveled banana. Blackened sweat glistened over his shiny, balding scalp and the sides of his hair turned up into twists, like horns, when he ripped off the filthy baseball cap. Fatigue oozed from him like sap from a wilting tree. Gwen, his tiny twelve-month old, clung to his leg, gnawing on his knee as he stumbled onto the living room couch. Todd, two, and Heidi, four, shrieked and babbled unintelligibly as he attempted to pry Gwen from his leg. A hollow, exhausted look in his eye, he was limp from a sixteen-hour day of driving and delivering freight in the summer heat. As he peeled the grease-smeared work shirt over his sweaty shoulders, Heidi squealed, "Daddy you said you play with me when you got home from work! Whatta we gonna play?" Her excited eyes glittered with anticipation as she twirled her auburn ponytails.

Chunky Todd rolled across the living room floor like an animated, blond, grinning sausage shouting, "Blue's Clues, Daddy, Blues Clues!" The man's last ounce of energy dissipated as he imagined listening to yet another episode of "Steve" and his dog "Blue" playing their sleuthing game while nurturing their excessively friendly relationships with "Mailbox," "Mr. Salt" and "Mrs. Pepper." Although only in his mid-thirties, his aching back and stiff joints made him feel closer to sixty.

Giddy with excitement, all the children became a whirlwind of activity as their father forced his inert body from the cushions and limped over to the game closet. After shoving the neon orange VHS into the VCR slot, Todd scuttled over and dropped like a shot put next to Heidi on the crumb-dusted berber carpet.

"One game, Heidi, just one. Daddy needs a little nap soon," the perpetually sleepy man warned his eager daughter as he plopped the box of checkers down between them. Before any of them knew what was happening, Gwen dove onto the box, crumpling the thin cardboard corners. With a lightning sweep, she scattered the red and black pawns, one of them disappearing into her mouth. Immediately, Todd began running manic circles around the whole mess and a distressed Heidi grappled with Gwen to fish a red disk from between her tiny front teeth. Meanwhile, Dad collected the rest of the pieces and set up the board. "Sit down and watch for clues, Todd, " he commanded half-heartedly before pushing Gwen away from the tattered board.

The long-anticipated game began. Impressed with Heidi's strategy, the weary father began to enjoy himself, feeling a warm satisfaction seep through him as he nudged a pawn forward with a calloused fingertip. Queek, queek, Gwen's pacifier bobbled underneath her tiny nose as she squatted virtually on top of the game board. Her blue eyes studied the formation in front of her. Harold watched his youngest child guardedly, hoping to delay the inevitable disaster she would wreak upon their game.

Clack, clack, clack.... clack. A mischievous smirk broke out across Heidi's face as she illegally snatched away her father's pawns before he jumped up in protest. Suddenly, Todd screamed, "A Clue, a CLUE," setting off just enough of a distraction for Gwen to launch a belly-flop onto the precious, plastic gems that beckoned her. Tears of frustration welled up in Heidi's eyes causing Harold to reconstruct the game the best he could. Compassion overrode his desire to sink into a soft, welcoming bed for a bit of blissful, elusive sleep.

Father and daughter began a second game as the little boy propelled himself around the kitchen inside the bottom of the game's box. Loudly meowing, Todd crashed his "sled" into cupboards and chairs.

Distracted by a lively rendition of "The Mail Song," Gwen left the duo in peace to finish their game. Finally, Heidi cheered for herself, "I won, I won, I won, Daddy!" Heartened by the happiness a simple game of checkers could bring his little girl, Dad burst up from the floor and announced, "Airplane rides for everyone!" His well-muscled arms rippled as he energically swung Todd up into the air and in circles as Gwen and Heidi danced around, dodging their brother's dangling lets. Next, he launched a gentle, slow spin for the baby before ending with a more spirited flight for his checkers champ. The kids all tumbled to the floor, giggling while their rejuvenated father pulled a colorful storybook from the shelf and began reading aloud. Afterward, an animated glimmer in his eyes, he felt more than happy to forego the coveted nap and invited his three adoring kids onto a pile of beanbag chairs to romp around long into the evening.

New Neighbors

2004-10-03T00:30:00.000-07:00

A month ago our family relocated from the Portland/Vancouver area to a small town in central Washington. Ours is a brand new neighborhood with new neighbors moving in about every eighteen hours or so. Under the circumstances, one doesn't have to wait long for something interesting to observe.

As of yet, no one in this little pocket of the world seems to have made acquaintance. Instead we all become familiar with one another via the idiosycratic phenomena occurring within each seven thousand square foot plot of space.

Local "celebrity" #1 appears about as normal as a person gets, except for the shiny black company vehicle covered with bright yellow pawprints. No, he doesn't have a giant, radioactive pet. It is the KATS Radio Cruiser. Impossible to not notice, it rests in the driveway a few days out of the month. The rest of the time, he sports a cherry-red convertible Miata - a blaring reminder that this guys life is far more exciting than mine. Not for long though, because if he doesn't put in a yard soon, every KAT in the neighborhood is going to use his ample digging space...

Local "celebrity" #2, aka "Outback Steakhouse Dude" also keeps a work vehicle in his driveway covered entirely with a mural of the Australian Outback. It begs for a the addition of the Survivor II cast - or at least Jerri and Colby. As I drive by, drooling over a memory of the Queensland Chicken Salad I ordered at my last trip to his restaurant, I think to myself, hey, I'm in Australia, wait, maybe I'm not..."

Seconds later, I narrowly miss a low-speed, head-on collision with "Irrigation Guy." One mustn't upset him for he is the only man in the free world who knows how to fix and program everyone's new sprinkler systems so the grass doesn't float away.

Moving on. Kid country. This family may have as many as 46 children. I've never seen any two of them at the same time, so I can't determine exactly what's going on over there. I just know that after living kitty corner to them for over a month, I have yet to see the same kid emerge twice. On garbage day, you have to walk down the other side of the street. Without a personal GPS system it's very likely you could get lost amid this family's obscene collection of trash cans.

In the same vein, we have "Excessive Yard Debris Woman." She puts off mowing until her eleven-year old kid gets lost in the backyard. Then, she closely monitors her strategically placed piles of grass clippings - desperately hoping that the wind will help most of it find its way into other yards. Finally, she ends up cramming about nineteen cubic yards of reeking dead grass into two garbage cans so that every other Wednesday the waste man knocks on her door and threatens to kill her.

I think she ought to consider siccing "Roving Shih Tzu" on him. This dog has belligerently trespassed every threshold in the region and no one has a clue where he belongs. I suspect "Wiener Dog With an Agenda" knows, but he isn't talking. He has yellow burn spots to etch on the face of "Scary Work Truck Guy's" new lawn.

"Scary Work Truck" came off the line sometime in the Nixon era, and exists to this day for the sole purpose of hauling landscape materials and passive aggressively parking just a bit too far in front of "Wiener Dog Family's" house.

A particular favorite of mine - and undoubtedly many others around here - is Little Narnia. This place is a cross between Shrek's swamp and The White Witch's courtyard from "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe." Surely, one of these mornings, Aslan will bound over the rooftops to breathe life back into all the hapless woodland statuary congregated before the large dirt pit that is their domain. Until that day arrives, they'll continue to gaze sappily back at all incredulous passers-by.

Down the road, "Giddy Newlyweds" are at it again. Snapping photos, that is. They have photographed the entire evolution of their first home from dirt to shingles. They take turns posing for one another in the days preceding their glorious move-in date. It is, afterall, imperative that they fill up every page of every photo album they received as a wedding gift. That way, they can stuff them in crumbling cardboard storage boxes after the birth of the inevitable firstborn who will fill the inside of the house to the rafters with baby gear.

Among the sea of taupe, tan and gray homes lives "Pink House." This is the color that the construction sales people put on the exterior paint roster to give homebuyers the illusion that they are getting actual color choices. You aren't supposed to REALLY choose this color, however. "Mr. Pink House" shields his dignity by referring to the hue as "Lapstone," as so labeled on said roster. His friends aren't buying it though. Too clever to be fooled by his subtle trickery, they are.

In a situation like this, you have scores of simultaneous home improvement projects underway. Because most of them are fences, privacy is elusive, at this point. My theory is that home improvement projects cause divorce. Evidence of this is brewing everywhere. I know a couple who is putting in a fence and yard. They once tried to murder each other in my dining room while heatedly discussing sloped terrain. That would have been unwise of them, due to the likelihood that "Underwear Guy With No Windowshades" would have witnessed the whole thing, thus summoning one or all of the four cops who reside at the four corners of Phase I. Wait, aren't they mentioned somewhere in The Revelation?

Another Unquiet Mind

2003-11-09T03:38:00.000-08:00

Spinning, racing... the words fly and sprint through my mind - gaining dimension like a snowball increases with its speed. I see the motion, the words blur by, an inaudible sound... a rythm envelopes the fleeting images and ideas. Trapped inside of me, the ideas become restless. Their demeanor changes from humorous, wispy images to dark, angry, threatening... then to euphoric compulsion and reflection.

Thoughts move too quickly to verbalize, cloaked in inexpressible emotions which are so fleeting they merge together into a dark mood - never comprehended by others. External activity becomes overwhelming as the mental synergy begins to cloud the four-dimensional cage I am trapped in. In a silent scream, I crave a breakthrough into dimensions always perceived but invisible and unable to embrace. My physical body is a tangible, crushing weight borne upon me only to be escaped in death.

Spent, my thoughts slow to the normal spin, the perpetual stream of hypotheses, colors, equations... words play with each other, refraining from their rushing pattern, momentarily. Curiosity fuels an undying compulsion to create, express, expend energy.

Always misunderstood, often ignored, loneliness compounds the intensity within. Exhausted and in a tug-of-war between the concrete and abstract double-life I lead, I slowly die inside, crave solitude - yet the inferno of will deep within drives me far from giving in. Always on the verge of hysterical laughter, tears, or eye-popping rage, my soul resists its prison as the restless sea incessantly challenges the shore.

Encounters with others reveal souls pouring out. The emotions, inhibitions, apprehensions of others emerge as vapors over a lake on a crisp morning. They billow and spread laterally as from a fog machine. Their essence overwhelms my senses, while seeming unnoticed by their owners. The words, sounds and images of reality become veiled to me by the spreading cloud of "hidden" messages they unwittingly reveal to me like constricting appendages weaving around me like subtle snake attack. Numerous vibes, deafening and tactile to my senses. Distracted by this, I cannot focus on the words of their trivial prattle. Violated by their self-absorbtion, ignorance, untruth, I want to run... fly away from the suffocating cloud that thickens and bears down on me with every passing second. I have to find someone, anyone who doesn't leak the oppression of the common personality.

I seek solitude in music to bathe in its audible beauty. It is medication to the hurricane in my head. It slows the winds of turmoil and draws out symmetry... stirs a new melody or a string of thoughts to produce a new idea upon which to meditate during the next, brewing storm. The music induces a focus inside which draws scattered fragments and puzzle-pieces of myriad thoughts into their rightful sequence. The dimension of sound subdues with its colors, graceful sinews and visible effects of its dynamics. A calm develops out of the turmoil and slowly spreads from the depths of my interior allowing a rare rest from physical tension. It slowly drips toward the perimeter of my being - a relaxation seldom even encountered in sleep, it works in to momentarily play the eye in my storm - soon to be interrupted by reality once again.

Dad

2003-09-03T13:32:00.000-07:00

His favorite Beatles album crashes through the Saturday morning silence like a semi roaring past a quiet pasture at sunrise. An early bird who relishes free time, Dad is perched on the edge of our old, brown and tan floral loveseat. The lightweight cushions flip up on either side of him as he picks the strings of the acoustic guitar resting between his knees. Dark eyes, staring ahead and slightly downcast, reveal little of what passes swiftly behind them. Below his chocolate, mussed, jaw-length hair is a worn, white tee shirt. Plaid, flannel pajamas drape his long legs and hang over clean, groomed, bare feet. A Siamese cat perches atop the ornate woodstove next to him, with one ear turned back, acknowledging the considerable decibels that invade every corner of the old home.

The sun's light peaks in from behind the tall, dark fir trees outside the window behind him. In a weekly ritual, I awaken to the glorious sounds of early classic rock and amble toward the living room to observe his silent introspection to music. Melancholy hovers around him like a halo, a deep contrast from the lively comic antics he displayed a mere twelve hours ago.

He doesn't speak Vietnamese, but you would never know it. As Mom prepares dinner, he swings through the kitchen, cajoling and yammering on in the Asian language he "mastered" during his tour of duty in 'Nam. As my brother and I roar with laughter, he continues - likely commenting on the meal cooking nearby. What he is saying, we'll never know. Ever. His thoughts are perpetually shrouded beneath an incredibly expressive exterior. Unless he has something to say that "Porky Pig," "Daffy Duck," or Speedy Gonzales" might utter, all else remains a mystery. He struts out of the kitchen to do the "soft-shoe" in the hallway before he suddenly halts, jerks back his head and shouts, "That's All Folks!" Like a weaasel ducking back into its den, he vanishes into the bathroom, paper in hand, and slams the door behind him.

Later, he reitres in the cozy, lamp-lit living room absorbing an episode of "Hee-Haw." On the floor, backed against the couch, he smirks in amusement at the antics of country-themed sketch comedy while I adorn his hair with bright, plastic barrettes. In his left hand, he holds a tall glass filled with homemade devil's food cake and milk. Otherwise completely still, he flips his foot around teasingly for the feisty kitten hopping on his ankles. After slurping down the last of his runny dessert, he grunts, climbs up from the floor, and in his "verbose" manner, snaps, "Time for bed," before dumping his glass into the sink. As he pours himself his nightly bowl of Shredded Wheat, I snuggle into my bed. Dad turns off the TV and I am lulled to sleep by the cozy sound of strummed guitar chords, muted by my bedroom door.

Diaperman

2003-07-17T23:35:00.000-07:00

My husband is a good-natured guy. After all, there should be a balance in every relationship. The man has enough patience to endure the abuse of three feisty, young children and a sometimes, ill-tempered wife who has some days where she does little besides tap away at the computer or scream in frustration.

Before the children were born, he would rhetorically beg the question, "Why, because I am a man, must I take out the trash and scoop the cat box?" I refer to it as rhetorical because I would always turn a deaf ear to him. Now that we have three kids, the novelty of diaper changing has worn off for me. He rarely changed our oldest daughter. I enjoyed it. Now, with our younger two children, eighteen and thirty months old, running around the house wearing only training diapers, (dressing them in actual clothing on days we don't leave the house has fallen by the wayside), times have changed.

If my husband is not at work, there is always a viable reason why I cannot change the very frequent toxic bombs. He never puts up a fight, at least not long enough to win. As I furiously clatter away at my keyboard, pretending to be exceedingly busy and oblivious to the hideous scene behind me, my husband goes to war with the underside of one of our toddlers.

I wait in eager anticipation to see if this will be the record-breaking diaper change wherein he comes out of the ordeal with clean hands. (update 3 years later: he never did) I tremble with hysteria as he bellows at his "enemy," "HEY, bring those wipes back here NOW... Get your hands OUT of IT... NO, NO, NO, NooOOOO, don't touch thaaaat... Hey, you get back over here!"

Afterward, the kid scatters and my husband paces around the house, an oozing wad of pollution dangling from his thumb and forefinger. He searches for his other shoe so he can make an outdoor deposit before running to the bathroom for a disinfecting scrub. Once clean, he will predictably holler, "Why is there NEVER a towel in here?"

Dripping, he searches the house for a shred of dry terrycloth as I leave my post to spray bursts of citrus freshener at the ceiling fans, enabling all of us to breathe again. Hubby finally retires to the recliner and his favorite news program. I hear toddler number two barrelling down the stairs and promptly return to my cyber-haven. As I begin feverishly composing a new blog, the little guy comes to a halt in front of his father and announces, "Da-yeeee... Poo!"

Celebrating The Fourth

2003-07-03T13:11:00.000-07:00

As far back as I can remember, my father has displayed innumable personal interests and hobbies. He is an endless well of amusement - eccentricities abound. Sadly some of them have disappeared as he's matured - alive only in the recesses of my own wayward mind. Right now, I am not talking about his chasing of hubcaps that flew off of other cars on the highway and nailing them to the garage wall. Nor am I speaking of the infinite time spent staring at tiny metal objects in home improvement stores before leaving empty-handed. The event I bring up today is the Annual Slug Explosion Festivals of my early childhood - known by most as Independence Day.

Dad would prepare for his celebration by rooting through the kitchen cupboards gathering empty, yellow, Gregg's margarine containers - my mother had enough of them to feed an army of stray cats (a story for another time.) He then lay out his ample collection of precious firecrackers on the countertop. Fascinated by the red, white and blue papered explosives, I would attempt to reach up there and touch them before being noisily shooed out of the way by a giddy man spilling plasticware and matchbooks about - like a pigeon scattering before an overstuffed pickup on moving day.

Slugs were about as common around our forested acre in rural Oregon as fleas on a derelict dog. I would scuttle around behind Dad in the dank darkness while he collected the ill-fated, slippery creatures. It invariably rained this day each year, so the pickings were ample. After clearing out a spot in the gravel driveway, he'd squat over his treasures, carefully placing one of the unsuspecting critters over the top of several firecrackers with great precision. After snarling at me to back away, he'd light the fuse and cover his flammable work of art with one of the butter tubs.

Seconds later, ear-piercing cracks and pops silenced the crickets as thin, yellow plastic separated right before our eyes. Chunks of slug sailed thru the cool night air as Dad rushed over to assess the carnage. Mom would dip back into the house emoting disgust. With my ears still covered, I gazed on in fascination. After about an hour of this, the front of our property would be littered with slug entrails, the glorious aftermath of a night celebrating freedom.

One day, when my son is old enough to pay for his own accident insurance, I'll pass on the tradition of blowing wet, slimy creatures to smithereens. I'd better start saving my butter containers.

Three Kids in a Parking Lot

2003-03-10T01:52:00.000-08:00

Recently, I dropped by a local discount store to buy some extra large training diapers for my two-year old son's extra large behind. As I whipped open the sliding door of my minivan, Heidi, my four-year old, began her incessant chatter about the Chuck E. Cheese tickets she hid in my underwear drawer, and how we will have to dig those out so we can buy one of those "boingy thingies" next time we are there. She continued, "Mommy did you KNOW that last time all of Daddy's CHEESE fell off his pizza and that boy was SPITTING in the climbing tubes and WHY was that girl playing air hockey in her SOCKS?" Yakkity, yak yak yak.

Meanwhile, she was standing ON my feet. I kept shoving her out of the way as I attempted to wrestle Gwen, my 17-month old from the seatbelt - on which she had a death grip. Heidi repeatedly sprung back onto my feet like a bungy cord - despite my aggressive pushing. Two year old Todd was in the far back seat hollering, "lemme ouuuutt, maaah..." I took a break from wrangling Gwen to unbuckle Todd. I returned to find her completely back in the belt and shrieking because I would not let her rebuckle the chest latch.

I finally bellowed at Heidi, "Get your tail up on the sidewalk and SHUT UP for two seconds!!" Miraculously, I managed to rip Gwen loose from all the straps and buckles. Todd lay down underneath the back seat, whispering to his "Wheaties" matchbox car. I began my ritual chant... "Todd-get-outta-the-van-Todd-come-on-come-on-come-ON-Todd-get-outta-the-van. Hurry-hurry-up-Todd-hurry up-come-on-come-on-COME-ON!!!"

Still enraged, Gwen began slapping me in the face, screaming in fury and scratching my arm to ribbons as she squirmed on my hip with unnatural strength and force. My three hundred pound bag slid down my other arm by the rough leather strap. At the top of my lungs I finally screamed, "TODD GET OUTTA THE VAN AND STAND OVER THERE BY YOUR SISTER!!"

Gwen quieted herself, sensing I was near the edge. Todd slithered out of the van in slow motion, muttering to himself. Hitting the pavement with a plethora of junk that he'd mined from underneath the back seat, he then stood there, motionless, gazing into space. I began the second half of my chant... "Get-outta-the-way-Todd-I-gotta-shut-the-door-now-you're in-the way-son-move-your-bum-go-go-GO-NOW-NOW-NOW!" Clutching his treasures, he slooowly inched toward the walkway where Heidi was spinning and jumping around like a deranged animal, shrieking off-pitch songs from Disney movies.

Soaked in Gwen's drool, I salvaged the contents of my bag from beneath the van. As Heidi resumed her chatter, Jake clattered a sippy cup against the headlight before we slowly shuffled toward the store's entrance.

Passionate Terror Syndrome

2003-01-06T00:08:00.000-08:00

"Face your fears and you will conquer them," or so I've read. I have a better theory. Avoid that which terrifies you - at any cost - and live a more exciting life.

Although only four at the time, I vividly remember trembling in terror while perched on the edge of our ice-cold toilet seat - literally praying that the two Daddy-Longlegs in the corner behind me wouldn't decide to attack my gooseflesh-riddled bum. At the earliest opportunity, I'd spring from the bathroom toward the kitchen, slipping down the hardwood hallway, tugging on my corduroy, bell-bottom pants. By finishing my restroom trips in the kitchen, I began my pattern of seasoning life's monotonous routines. Only near-paralyzing fear could spur such a process. Maybe I'd have my pants up before someone found me, maybe not. Maybe I'd remember to wash my hands...

My unique method of dealing with terror spilled over into the lives of others. Fast-forward five years. I was nine years old, and playing "house' with several neighbor children in our back orchard. I emerged through the "door" of our "kitchen" and happened to glance down at my chest and saw a hairy, striped, eight-legged creature from hell staring back at me. Tossing play dishes into the air, I shimmied and shrieked, but to no avail. Spiders are prepared for this defense tactic and use every muscle in their hideous appendages to hold onto the fibers of your clothing. Anyone with an honest fear of the little suckers also knows that one's hands are useless when fending off this enemy. My next order of defense was to hurl myself onto the ground, chest-first and mash the thing into a pulp before hopping back up and ripping off my shirt. Next, adrenaline surging throughout my body, I bolted around the perimeter of our two acres emitting a sound most closely resembling Marish Carey and Tarzan in a blender. One cannot argue that any of us were bored that afternoon.

As an adult, I handle these situations more realistically. A thirty-year old woman screaming, flinging off clothing and dancing all over the yard would draw a moderate amount of attention - possibly even the authorities. So understandably, when I was attacked by a large, black offender last New Year's Day while bringing in our holiday doormat, I performed the ritual in my living room. None of the neighbors ever knew of the incident and I only trampled a couple of the kids. That was the highlight of our holiday season, hands down.

P.T.S, or Passionate Terror Syndrome has already been passed down a generation. If ever there is the slightest sudden movement or cry in our home, my two-year old son shouts, "Wherz dee spy-err, Momma?" before running in terrified circles and flailing his arms. Fortunately, I read in a home remedies magazine that any household cleaner containing ammonia will wipe out insects and similar opponents. I now wield my "glass and surface cleaner" as if it were a samurai sword. I have control of my domain, but not without flair.

Until recently, my husband always chastised my questionable fear-management tactics. He'd insist that spiders were not fearsome in any way, and complained about having to clean up the ammonia casualties that I'd lead him to when he arrived home from work. That is, until the infamous "singing/stalling" incident.

The two of us were relaxing in our recliners watching "Survivor" last month when we simultaneously noticed a large, black... something... advancing down the stairway at an unnerving pace. This thing had stubble and wheezed like a veteran smoker. Its only identifiable arachnid quality was the eight-legged gait. Weaving myself into the ceiling fan, I barked orders and shrieked at my husband who emerged from the bathroom, pale, bearing a wad of toilet paper that could have smothered Jaws (if only Richard Dreyfuss had thought of that).

It was at that very moment I figured out that my husband's feigned disdain for my "spider behavior" was only to conceal his own arachnophobia. He began to sing to the spider in a trembling voice, to the tune of Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."

"Unbelievable, that's what you are... Un...beeelievable, big as a car..."

"Shut up and kill it, you fool, before it snatches away that wad and smothers YOU!" I bellowed in horror.

"Calm down... I will," he sniped back unconvincingly, a crack in his voice.

Throughout the commercial break he wrestled with the spider. There was scuffling, grunting, and other noises I cannot demonstrate verbally, along with a blur of arms and legs - some human, some arachnid. Finally, mankind prevailed, and a couple of flushes later, we were able to put the incident behind us.

Most importantly, my husband was won over. I no longer have to defend myself. Together, we embrace our life of excitement, and we both sleep better too - except for those nights when we roll over onto our bottle of Windex.

An Hour in the Life...

2002-02-15T16:37:00.000-08:00

This is the story of "Skinny Newborn," "Chunky Baby," "Anxious Toddler." It all begins on a peaceful, sunny winter day after Anxious had been tucked in for her afternoon nap. Skinny was all snug amongst cozy fleece blankies in her infant swing, while Chunky crawled about the kitchen flinging Rubbermaid containers and napkins from drawers to the the floor.

Suddenly Chunky demanded, and needed a fresh diaper. Mother lay him down, as usual, for a supposed quick cleanup job. Chunky had created somewhat of a larger mess than usual. Hating to have his diaper changed, he bucked, kicked and twisted around while screaming in protest. Mom's small fingers could barely keep his ankles together as she desperately wiped. His ankles broke free and baby squish assaulted her jeans, the carpet and made its way all over Chunk's legs and t-shirt as he scuttled out of reach with amazing speed.

Twenty minutes later, Chunky is fresh in a new pair of sweats, as is Mom. The carpet is disinfected, and the experience nearly forgotten. Skinny begins to scream for a bottle. Mom lifts her up to find that she is soaked. You see, Skinny's legs are too narrow for newborn diapers, yet her waist is slightly too wide for preemie diapers. Both Skinny's gown, socks and the seat and blanket in her swing are drenched. Mom puts Skinny in the sink and washes her clean before putting her in a fresh gown, and feeding her a warm bottle.

Meanwhile, Chunkola approaches, bearing a second gift. (never feed chili to any child still in diapers). Skinny is placed among pillows on the couch. Mom begins to bring Chunk into submission for round II. While Mom's clothing has survived the second onslaught, her fingernails, hands and wrist have not. Nor have Chunky's formerly fresh sweats. Mom scrubs herself clean in the bathroom while Chunky crawls around naked and wiped, but sorely in need of a long, sudsy soak before donning his third set of clothing for the day.

Mom cannot carry Skinny and Chunky at the same time, for obvious reasons, so Chunky begins crawling up the stairs as Mom fetches Skinny and follows cloesly behind him. Skinny is fussing which causes Chunky to keep looking back to see what the matter is. Mom urges him back up the stairs with her foot as Skinny spits her entire 3 oz bottle on her fresh jammy as well as down the front of Mom's shirt. Mom heads back down the stairs and places Skinny back on the couch again. After lugging Chunk back down, she makes a new bottle for Skinny before noticing that Skinny's diaper is hanging out the bottom of her gown. Grabbing the bottle, Mom packs Skinny onto her shoulder and coerces Chunky back onto the stairway while fumbling with the not-so-user-friendly baby gate.

Finally arriving upstairs, Mom places Skinny in the bassinet, lifts her gown and removes her diaper. Meanwhile, Anxious, awake from her nap is hovering in her doorway having a panic attack over all the crying. Mom has forgotten to close the baby gate on the upstairs end of the flight. Anxious immediately notices this and begins to cry and shriek with terror because Chunky is backtracking toward the open stairway. Mom realizes this and leaves Skinny lying naked in her bed and hurries to latch the gate. Chunky is now safe, but Anxious has wet her pants in fright and created a puddle in the carpet. Mom orders Anxious to undress herself and prepare to take a bath with Chunk while she begins cleaning the soiled carpet.

Chunky and Anxious cruise around naked as Mom remembers Skinny is still in need of assistance. Quickly peeling her own cold, wet tee-shirt Mom exchanges it for a fresh one before heading back to find Skinny. Not only is she screaming for another bottle, but has also peed on herself and entire bed. After washing skinny with a wet cloth and re-dressing her a third time, Mom replaces the bedding before sitting down to feed her on the bathroom mat as Anxious and Chunky splash each other clean in the tub.

Maternal Perspective

2001-06-16T13:09:00.000-07:00

It is a hot June day. A flock of birds noisily flutters a rotation over the nearby field as a neighborhood cat skulks through the long grass below. A twenty-seven year old girl stands in the open patio door with a five-month old on her hip. The baby, clad only in a diaper and bib, also gazes at the scene before them.

Scattered around the small backyard are bright-colored, plastic toys waterlogged from soaking in the wading pool for over a week. Three years old, her daughter chatters happily about birthday parties and dinosaurs while splashing her soggy goldfish crackers with yet another scoop of water. She gazes up at Mom with cheesy crumbs caking her chin.

She doesn't know the thin, tanned decorated woman her mother used to be. Mommy's formerly long, sun-streaked hair is now layered, day-old and bunched on top of her head in a cheap plastic clip. The little girl does this with her hair too - to be like mom. Short shorts and tiny, spandex tops are replaced by grease-stained, cotton dresses with infant formula stains on the shoulder and chest.

The baby drools and squirms in her arms. It has been nearly a year since she has groomed her nails or quenched her skin with moisturizing lotion. She recalls the hours she used to spend in tanning beds or meticulously applying makeup and styling her hair. Formely zipping around in a tiny sports car, dropping in and out of places of interest on a whim, she now owns a minivan, leaving this untidy domain only to replace a lost pacifier or stock up on diapers. Now, pregnant a third time, she accepts that she will never again be that carefree person.

The next years will be messy, sleepless, and filled responsibility. Is there a balance between desperately clinging to youth and freedom while maturing into a person that nurtures happy, healthy young people before launching them into independence? In a final, figurative glance back, she resolves to only focus ahead in the future. A different life is underway and she must join it mentally. Although the change has come seemingly overnight, it is the pavement she will walk during this season of her life. Future years will be filled with laughs and pain, birthing a new era of growth and fulfillment.

Fortunately, her eyes are now open to the blessing it is rather than the burden it once seemed. Instead of dreading the future, she will let go of the last threads of disdain for frumpy motherhood and soak it all in - not wanting to take for granted what the older generation longs to have back. She contemplates what it will be like as a grandmother, reminiscing over these fleeting years and wishing there were once again sweet potatoes spattered on her clothing and sticky handprints on the TV screen. She'll choose the right perspective, others do not matter.