Archives
Fibromyalgia Seriously Sucks
It really, really . . . REALLY does.
If you liked what you just read, like it, pin it, share it, tweet it, stumble it! Thank you!
You Ate My Garlic Bread
You ate my garlic bread. I was saving it, for me . . . and you ate it. Not cool. I was actually looking forward to that little piece of garlic bread. I placed it in a plastic bag and hid it beneath the zucchini and the mushrooms in the bottom drawer of the fridge.
I know you didn’t just stumble upon it while searching for baby carrots to snack on, you opened the drawer looking for that garlic bread like a sneaky thief in the middle of the night. That’s just rude. It reminds me of the time my slice of pizza disappeared, and the time that corner piece of cornbread I squirreled away mysteriously vanished.
I am fully aware the cornbread incident was two years ago, but it wasn’t the first missing morsel of yumminess you’ve stolen from me and it certainly wasn’t the last, I have a list. A long list.
It’s not like I’ll starve to death because of what you’ve done, but it bothers me, a lot. It hurts my feelings, pisses me off, annoys me, and disappoints me. I wish I knew how to make you stop.
The thing is, when you take something you know is not yours, even something as insignificant as a tiny piece of garlic bread, it’s an awful thing. It’s sneaking, it’s stealing . . . and then when you deny your misdeed it’s lying. Three things I thought I taught you not to do, three things you only seem to do to me.
My sweet boy, you are a man now, and your choices are your own, I need you to understand this is about so much more than stolen garlic bread.
I really did want that garlic bread.
If you liked what you just read, like it, pin it, share it, tweet it, stumble it! Thank you!
Regaining Wonder
I sometimes envy the look of amazement and innocent wonder in the eyes of a child as they gaze upon something I’ve somehow forgotten was worthy of such awe. I don’t remember when I first lost the gift of seeing the marvel of what we grow up to find ordinary, but I remember quite well the day I realized it had happened. It broke my heart. My tears blurred the road before me as I pulled the car off to the shoulder and cried. I tried to contain it for the sake of my children, but now I realize it may serve as a great life lesson for them one day.
Christmas was fast approaching; the kids were giddy with all the anxious excitement holidays bring. School had been out for a week and they were growing more and more restless with each passing day. I had so much to do, there were still gifts to buy and wrap in pretty paper, cards to sign and stamp and send, and what seemed like a million other things. I felt flustered and frazzled, the thought of the inevitable trip to the grocery store with four young children was weighing heavily on my mind.
We arrived at a supermarket filled with bustling, busy, and irritable shoppers. I fit right in. All the things that cause general annoyance in the store seemed magnified, the kids wanted this and they wanted that, the lines were long and my fuse was growing shorter by the minute. We made it out relatively unscathed and set off for home. The children must have sensed I was ready to lose what was left of my mind, they were unusually silent as we drove home, the sky was darkening and the twinkling lights of the season gave the evening a beautiful glow, I was too consumed with frustration to notice.
About a mile or so from our home is the entrance to a lovely neighborhood the kids have dubbed Christmas Light Street, the entire block lights each night with the most magical displays of Christmas cheer imaginable throughout the entire holiday season. The kids began to buzz in the back of the van, the closer we got to Christmas Light Street, the louder they became. I couldn’t take it and I yelled at them. I told them to knock it off and be quiet until we made it home.
The dead silence which followed my outburst was eerie and uncomfortable. As we passed by the fanciful wonderland, the entire day replayed in my mind, it hadn’t been as bad as I was making it out to be. I realized the conversation I’d intruded upon was filled with joy and excitement. My children were laughing and talking of Santa and baby Jesus and I yelled at them for it. I’d stolen a precious moment of perfect childhood innocence I knew I could never give back.
This realization is what brought me to the side of the road in tears. Even the memory of that moment brings tears to my eyes and a pang of sadness to my heart. When I regained what little composure I had left, I turned to them an apologized. If I could have given them each a piece of my heart I would have. They forgave me. They didn’t say it, but I saw it in their eyes. I felt unworthy as we sat there watching cars pass by. I made a u-turn and drove straight back to Christmas Light Street and we drove up and down the two blocks of twinkling delight for the better part of an hour.
We sang carols and we talked about the presents Santa would soon bring. We talked about the birth of Jesus, and for the first time in a long time I felt the magic of childhood and I vowed never to let myself become so detached from what was real and wonderful again. I have my moments of course, but I try so hard to keep myself in tune with the purity children are blessed to see each day. We live in a world that does its best to rob our children of this gift, as my children have grown I’ve seen it insinuate itself into their hearts as well. Sometimes, I am the one reminding them to hold on tightly to the simple joys in life.
I wish we could drive down Christmas Light Street every evening; I never again want to feel what I felt as I sat crying on the side of the road that night . . .
Crystal R.Cook
If you liked what you just read, like it, pin it, share it, tweet it, stumble it! Thank you!
Socially Challenged
If you liked what you just read, like it, pin it, share it, tweet it, stumble it! Thank you!
Premio Dardos Award
After quite the dry spell, I decided to click on my lonely WordPress link and attempt a comeback, of sorts. I was pleasantly surprised by a sweet recognition from my fellow bloggy friend saya in the form of an award. She always has something lovely to say, brightening little pieces of my day. I hope you take a moment to check out her blog and leave a kind word or two and a little encouragement.
Premio Dardos Award
Premio Dardos means prize darts in Italian, given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing.
There are 3 rules for this award:
- Include the Dardos Award image.
- Mention the blog that nominated you.
- Nominate blogs and the reason you nominated them.
My three nominees from an ever-growing list of bloggers I admire are:
Considerings Lizzi never fails to make my heart smile . . . Her writing is real, unfiltered, and refreshing. She weaves words in a way that makes you wish to read more. I feel blessed to call her my friend.
A New Perspective Perhaps is filled with the tender realities of life, uplifting and a joy to read. Her words of faith and love send beautiful message to open our hearts and minds in ways we sometimes forget to do.
Behind The White Coat Each post I visit leaves me with something to ponder, a new perspective, and sometimes I learn something new. The experiences she shares are fascinating. From the beginnings of her medical training to the triumphs and trials of being a doctor and mother, I always enjoy visiting her thoughts.
If you liked what you just read, like it, pin it, share it, tweet it, stumble it! Thank you!
Synaptic Connection Lost – Send Help
Testing, testing, 1–2–3. Once upon a time, in a land far away . . . the swift brown fox jumped over the lazy dog . . .
Pardon me, just trying to be certain I’ve not forgotten how to type. It seems the keys are in working order, my fingers easily find each one, so typing is not the issue, it appears I still remember how to form words in a manner resembling sentences.
I guess I can check those excuses off my * why on earth am I not writing? * list.
There must be an internal malfunction disrupting the usual flow of words I rarely have to fight with such vigor to release.
My typically energetic neurons have been slacking off in the synaptic connection department, maybe the receptors are busted. The problem must lie somewhere within those billions of nerve cells running my information processing center. My synaptic connections are simply not synapsing and connecting.
Perhaps my neurons need input. I have hundreds of books from which to choose, all with the potential to jump-start my ridiculously stubborn mind. If I could just syphon all the excess and unneeded and unwanted thought from it, I’m certain I would regain coherent and functional use of the blasted thing.
The closest I’ve come to actual writing these past weeks was changing the words to Green Eggs and Ham to reflect my disdain for people. Sam-I-Am meets his demise at the end. A dear friend suggested I seek pharmaceutical intervention after reading it. I assured her I was properly medicated, but she seemed doubtful.
So, woe is me.
I suppose I will peruse my overflowing shelves for a good read, suggestions are welcome.
INTERMISSION
I’ve narrowed my choices down to four, but I cannot come to a final decision.
The Bell Jar —Sylvia Plath
The Professor and the Madman — Simon Winchester
Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children — Ransom Riggs
The Fourth Hand — John Irving
Please feel free to provide your thoughts as mine are wholly unreliable at this time.
If you liked what you just read, like it, pin it, share it, tweet it, stumble it! Thank you!
Sigh. Ugh. Argh.
I seem to have taken ill, or lazy, or moody; they feel surprisingly similar at times. I am a miserable beast, my current disposition is slightly less than amicable and considerably less than favorable. I’ve done my best to mask the monster for nearly a week now in hopes no one would notice, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to contain.
Of course, I am prone to the dramatic when I feel like this, things are never as bad as I ultimately make them out to be . . . but they are. This is more than simple 6 AM melodrama because I am annoyed at being awake. This is, I have a headache, my body feels like it’s run a marathon from a simple day of housework, no one has bothered to pick up dog poo for a week, found the handle of my eighth favorite coffee cup on the floor, it’s so hot here I can’t properly breathe and I look like I work in sweat lodge, bills are due, and I forgot the important stuff at the grocery store, kind of turmoil..
Legitimate reasons to brood, no? I’ve not sat down to write anything of substance or value in quite some time, this particular grouping of words cannot be counted as proper writing since it is basically nothing more than a mini whine session to convince myself I am justified in my misery, not that I truly need justification. My complaints are just.
I’m mostly laying the blame for my ghastly circumstances on the heat, I grew up in Alaska, it’s not in my genetic makeup to survive and thrive in the September heat here in Western armpit of the United States. I’ve had eighteen years to acclimate to the seemingly volcanic temperatures my fellow citizens seem to adore, it’s not going to happen.
Sigh. Ugh. Argh.
Crystal R. Cook
If you liked what you just read, like it, pin it, share it, tweet it, stumble it! Thank you!
Guest post: Never alone
Thank you for inviting me to share a little of myself on your lovely and inspirational new blog . . .
If you liked what you just read, like it, pin it, share it, tweet it, stumble it! Thank you!
The Pit and the Pity Pot
So here it is . . . the pit. Well, I suppose it’s more of a pothole really, but it certainly feels much deeper right now. I don’t even know how I fell into it. One misstep and BLAM! I was on my behind at the bottom scratching my head and wondering how the heck I ended up in here. Looks cozy enough – There’s even a nice little pity pot for me sit upon and mull over the glorious day I’ve had thus far.
So, I am sitting here on the pity pot. It’s actually about the size of a small pool right now, care to join me? There’s plenty of room for two. Watch out though, there are little creatures below just waiting to bite you on the butt. I haven’t yet been pinched by their pearly whites, but the way this day is going I’m fairly certain it will happen soon.
Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the details of my plight. I’ll simply say I have good reason for my brooding, at least it seems like a worthy reason at the moment. Tomorrow it may appear trivial as I know something even more dreadful will overshadow today’s events.
So much for optimism hu? My glass is half full, it really is. Unfortunately, someone has replaced it with a dribble glass and positive thinking is doing nothing more than dripping off my chin and staining my shirt.
Oh, if only the sad sound of a sigh could be written. It’s said for every dark cloud looming above there is a silver lining. It looks like tin foil from here which only reminds me the house trolls will be wanting to eat tonight and I will be forced to cook which means I’ll have to claw my way up and out of this wretched little hole and put on a happy face.
I think I might just order pizza and lock myself away in my room for the night, maybe the week. I wish my house had a tower, that would be perfect for a day like this. I could run, sobbing, up the dark, winding staircase and throw myself down upon the beautiful canopy bed at the top of the tower. I know, makes no sense, but there is always a pretty little room at the towers top in the movies, isn’t there?
I doubt my prince charming would saunter in and wake me from my fitful slumber with the sweet kiss of truest love, freeing me forever of my torment and whisk me away into happily ever after though. Nope, not my Romeo. He’d probably forget all about me until he ran out of clean underwear.
I would cry it out, but then I would have a stuffy nose and a headache. I would scream, but the neighbors would think I’m nuts. I know, I know, I’m deluding myself, they all came to that conclusion long ago. I’d pull out my hair, but . . . ouch. I’d break something, but then I’d just have to clean it up and in doing so, would cut myself on a broken piece of whatever it was and bleed to death.
I guess I am doing the only thing I can do, write about nonsense and nothing until I feel better. You know what? I think it’s working. I actually do feel a bit better . . . I still wish I had a tower though. The drama of it all would be so grand.
Tonight will be one of those nights I must end with my knees on the ground and my eyes toward the heavens. He’ll know how to fix it, he always does.
Crystal R. Cook
The Qwiet Muse 