Magic Mess in Two Days Flat

One of my kids lives like a pig. Except that I think pigs are actually pretty clean and so that's not nice to the piggies. His room is disgusting. Thing is, it always has been. And I've always been "helping" him clean it. Then, two days later, I'm all "La-la-la!" (because I really do sing while I'm walking around my house) and I walk by his room. Then I back up and stare and my jaw drops all dramatically. Frickin' seriously?! What happened?

I wait and plot and hide, ready for the ambush. He gets home from school and I attack. What the heck happened to your room? How could that happen in two days? I couldn't make a mess like that if I tried! And so on. He is not rude about this (like me) and simply looks perplexed. Sometimes he looks like is-this-going-to-cost-me-Minecraft-time? But that's it. He doesn't care. At all. 

Meanwhile, my little neatnik son is freaking that there's a layer, a layer, of dust on all his furniture. And his floor has *gasp* LINT on it. Lint and FUZZ! Aah! What kind of mum am I anyway, he'd like to know. No, he wouldn't. He's a good boy. I'd like to know it. Why am I spending all my time on one child who doesn't give a rat's tail what his room looks like while ignoring the child who would simply like his bookshelf dusted thank you very much. 

My 7-yr-old keeps his room immaculate. He likes it that way. He needs his environment to be in order. And clean. But I'm so tired from helping my 9-yr-old clean his mess that I only half-heartedly help my little one who asked ever so politely (sometimes "with a cherry on top") for some dusting and vacuuming. 

So, to my 9-yr-old who can magically conjure up a pile of trash, dirty clothes, snotty tissues, books, and Lego pieces in less than an hour, then dump them on every available surface of his room--NO help for YOU!

NO help for YOU!

Have you ever reached the point where you simply refuse to clean 

(or help clean) your kid's room?

Practicing Your Craft with Terrible Writing

Ever see a movie in which someone dances really badly? You think to yourself, “Geez, that girl has got to know how to dance well to dance that badly.”

Author Allison Hawn had a prompt on her blog challenging us to write a terrible opening line. I tried. (That line up there ^ is not it.) Here it is: 

The waiting room smelled like cheap air freshener, fake rose and sickly sweet vanilla, mixed with the lingering scent of hopelessness as Tiffany and Pierce sat separated by loathing and distrust on a blue, faded couch.

Writing that crud was fun. But here’s what I was thinking as I typed my trashy first line: “Wow. This is difficult.” Or something along those G-rated lines. It’s like purposely putting your shoes on the wrong feet, or combining hummus, chocolate syrup, and lima beans for lunch.

Being mindful of crafting something horrible is good for you and your writing.

You’re breaking rules. Whether those rules are the writing world’s or your own isn't the point. You’re intentionally typing things that make you cringe. And not in a good way. You are consciously paying attention to what it is that you consider “bad”—flowery description, flat dialogue, useless filler, my blog—so you can avoid these things the next time you sit down to write your fiction, nonfiction, or poetry.

Whatever “bad writing” means to you, do it. Write some. It’s not as easy as you think.

Most of us have practiced active voice, realistic dialogue, showing not telling. But how many of us have practiced this? Here's my motivational, inspirational thought to get you typing terrible prose...

The journey of a thousand stories begins with one word. 

Spoonerisms at Breakfast: Cop Tarts and Poffee

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

"Hey! It's cat and dog day," I told my kid at breakfast. 

“There is so nuch thing!”

I turned to him. “What?”

“There is no such thing!”

“That is not what you said,” I snorted.

He looked at me then starting laughing, too. “I said a spoonerism.” 

“Um-hmm,” I mumbled through a mouthful of coffee. 

“It’s when you mix up a letter in two words and put them in each other.” He explained. 

I looked at him. “Okay,” I said.

“Spoonerisms are real.” He insisted.

I know my child. I believed him. But, hell, I’m a writer. I write. Um...I got my degree in writing. Which I will now use to clean my windows. Next year. Why does he know this and I don’t? And, I might add, this is not the first time I’ve been bested by my 7-year-old son.  
  
After breakfast, it was Google-time. I just love Wikipedia. And here is what Wiki had to say about spoonerisms.  A slip of the tongue, a twirly-whirl of consonants. Shel Silverstein even wrote a book composed almost completely of spoonerisms. Runny Babbit: A Billy Sook. How did I not know this? 

I often have to overcome major embarrassment to write these blogs. And I don't mind. Sometimes it's just awesome kaving hids. 

Testing, Testing, One, Two, Three...

Conversations with my 9-year-old.

 

Putting the "N" in Asperger's.

My son brought a test home that he failed. (The school uses "N" for a failing grade.) It was the first one ever so we were a bit surprised.

Was he distracted? Did he not study well enough? Did he not understand the material?

We asked him what happened. 

"Why do you think you did badly on this test?"

He looked at us like we had 3 heads and said:

"Because...it has an "N" on the front."

Writer Unplugged: Why I Didn't Delete My Blog

I’ve been beating myself up wondering whether I should delete my blog. Frankly, I’ve been contemplating deleting my Facebook (which has this side of 10 likes and I rarely use) and my Twitter account (which is relatively new and I don’t have the hang of yet). I know having an online presence, platform, brand, whatever has become essential but at what cost?

Last weekend, I realized I hadn’t written anything but a tweet since I’d opened my Twitter account. Not a word. Except my blog. But, see, I’m not a “blogger”. I have a blog but I’m not a blogger. I do not help people with my expertise, entertain people with my comedic essays, or interact with people about controversial subjects. The bloggers I’ve seen online edit and hone their often lengthy posts on their gorgeous background of a blog. They network and are part of a blogging community. They are artists. I just write.

I thought, “What's the point? Get rid of it.”

After reading this post by Cat Lumb about having a first draft become the thing you like best of all and keep instead of the subsequent edits, I realized why I love my blog so much and couldn’t delete it. I commented on her post that “first drafts have an amazing combination of raw emotion and the writer’s real voice. Which [is what] I want to read. And hear.” There it is. My blog is always a first draft. Maybe because I write it for fun, maybe because I know no one is reading it…I type and post. Done. It’s freeing, in a way, to be able to dance like no one is watching. I type like no one is reading. (Which is true, but whatever.)

I love writing my blog. No one reads my posts, as I am sure no one will read this one, but at least I am writing. You're supposed to have a target audience (I'm well aware of this as a teacher) but I don't. My blog is more of an online journal than a pro blog. Thing is, I want to write. I need to write. So I write—about my life, my kids, anything. It feels good and it keeps me on a schedule to make sure I keep writing.

And, because I just type whatever is on my mind then post it, it is me. This is me. Writer unplugged.

A Day of Green…That’s All

I never really celebrated St. Patrick's Day.

I remember wearing green to school when I was little. My mom would sometimes put my hair up in two, long blonde pigtails and tie green ribbons around them. Other than that, I don't think I did anything out of the ordinary on that day. Although...I seem to vaguely remember a green Care Bear with a shamrock on his tummy that I paid special attention to that day. Maybe I brought him to school? I also could be making that up or confusing it with another popular 80s toy that was green and had a shamrock somewhere on it.

I also thought Leprechauns were neat. Little magical people with rainbows and gold? What's not to like? I colored my share of them with green jackets and tiny black top hats.

Oh, yes, and the school cafeteria handed out our milk cartons (which looked normal) with no indication that, when you finally got the damn thing ripped open, the sloshing liquid inside was a putrid pea color. It tasted like milk but, honestly, gross.

That must have been the precursor to the green beer I was always served on St. Patrick's Day if I was stupid enough to join the mob of if-I-drink-enough-maybe-my-puke-will-be-green guests visiting the bars every March 17.

Green beer...yummy.

This is a decidedly Christian holiday celebrating, um, what’s his name. That saint. But, like many holidays, it has long since been celebrated as a secular feast and drink-fest. So, regardless of your religion, on March 17, everyone is Irish, wears green, and loves beer.

Kids cut out shamrocks and wear green. Adults drink beer and wear green. And, well, that’s kind of it.    

Melodious Morning

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

At breakfast this morning, my little one says, “I love that the birds are singing to us every morning again.”

I listen for a minute. Huh. There they are. “It is nice,” I agree. Why does my child have to notice the little things in life like that for me? I’m not doing anything—I should be in the moment. I’m not. Kids are so great for bringing you back to reality. Sometimes even in a good way.  

I just sip my coffee and listen to them chirp. “Wait until spring is here in a few weeks…”

“One week. Plus three days.”

“Yes,” I say. “One week. Then…”

“Plus three days,” he corrects.

“Yes,” I say again, “that’s the equinox. Spring. Right. Anyway, the birds will be chirping and singing and sounding so, um…”

“Melodious. They’ll sound melodious.”

Yes, my beautiful little boy, that’s exactly the word I was going to use before I finished my coffee this morning. Definitely not “good” or anything.