Our Camp Grenada – Apologies to Mr. Sherman

Feb9

Found sillies from the shoebox – I love rediscovering things I jotted down and tucked away . . . She was likely a pre-teen when I presented this one to her. It had no effect on the state of her room. Ever.

I may revise it for her and her husband.

My silly lyrics loosely based on what I remember of Camp Grenada by Alan Sherman – This version is lovingly dedicated to my daughter, my inspiration, my messy muse if you will. I dramatized things just a tad, but the premise of this little ditty is based on actual events, my husband and I are still in therapy, but things are getting better by the day.

I’ve actually had this tune stuck in my head since 1977 I believe, at least the tune to the first verse, I’m not certain if it even has any variation in tune between stanzas, all I know is it haunts me. It never leaves. It’s the fault of my sweet little troll sister. She sang it repeatedly from the age of five until just shy of her ninth birthday. I wonder if she even remembers the song.

This is your muddah,

and your fadahh,

we’re writing to ya,

our dear daughta,

we’d like to say that,

we really love ya,

but if you don’t clean your room we’re gonna holla.

We are standing,

in your room now,

things are movin,

and things are crawlin,

dad looks mad now,

I feel like bawlin,

if we’re not careful we could end up fallin.

There’s that new game that,

we just bought ya,

it’s in pieces

neath your fadahh.

It wasn’t his fault,

now just keep readin,

I’m pretty sure that I can stop the bleedin’

I see garbage,

he sees dishes,

we both wish that,

we had three wishes,

we would wish that,

things were cleaner,

or maybe we

could just be meaner.

Maybe we should,

get outta here now,

it’s getting dark and,

I feel fear now.

What if we can’t,

find our way out,

I don’t think that there’s a clear escape route.

Oh my dear daughta,

it’s getting hotta,

it’s been hours,

since we’ve had watta,

we are thirsty,

and we are hungry,

maybe there’s a snack under that laundry.

Your faddah’s searching,

beneath the pile,

it seems to go on,

for miles and miles.

I don’t see him,

and I don’t hear him,

oh I hope that he’s not suffacatin.

I’m going in now,

it’s been an hour,

I’ve got to find him,

he’ll need a shower.

When I reach him,

I will hold him,

I just hope and pray that he’s still breathin.

Oh dearest daughta,

things look real bad,

I hope we make it,

don’t be too sad,

if we’re unconscious,

when you find us,

just resuscitate me first and then your dad.

By the way dear,

you are grounded,

no matter how this,

letter sounded,

we would rather,

throw your junk away,

than look at this big mess for even one more day.

Sincerest of apologies to Mr. Sherman . . .

Crystal R. Cook

The Origin & Etymology of QWIETPLEEZ

Feb6

Since beginning this lovely blogging journey of mine, I’ve been asked many a time why my bloggy little corner of cyberspace is called the The Qwiet Muse, and I’ve thus far had no less than 5 well meaning folks inform me I spelled quiet wrong, you know, just in case spell check didn’t catch it. So sweet. To put those helpful minds at ease, let me issue an assurance to all, I spelled it that way on purpose. I had to fight spell check to do it to.

So we’ll start with the muse part. I love the word muse. Words often have more than one meaning, you may see the word muse and envision some ethereal goddess floating overhead, gently guiding and inspiring, but I have to say, if some ghostly apparition was hovering overhead, encouraging me to write, I would run.

Muse can also be defined as an instance or period of reflection, a source of inspiration . . . my particular muse comes from everything around me; my faith, my family, my friends. My muse exists in all the wonders of God’s creation and in my own human experience.

Onto to the origins and etymology of ‘qwiet’.

qwi-et [kwahy-it] adjective. Basic definition – it’s the same as quiet. It’s the same word, with the obvious distinction of containing a W in place of the U.

– making no noise or sound, especially no disturbing sound: qwiet children.
– free, or comparatively free, from noise: a qwiet house.
– silent: Be qwiet!
– restrained in speech, manner, etc.; saying little: a qwiet person.
– free from disturbance or tumult; tranquil; peaceful: a qwiet life.

verb
– to make qwiet.
– to make tranquil or peaceful; pacify: to qwiet a crying baby.
– to calm mentally, as a person.
– to allay (tumult, doubt, fear, etc.).
– to silence.

Origin: 1997; English(ish). Derived from (adj.) Middle English quiet < Latin quiētus, past participle of quiēscere ; (v.) Middle English quieten, partly derivative of the adj., partly < Late Latin quiētāre, derivative of quiētus.

*credit and apologies to dictionary.com

Historical Account:

In the summer of 1997, a young mother set about creating her first AOL.com email account. Her beginning attempts all ended in failure, every name she chose was unavailable. She wanted something witty, something fun, and something memorable. After several hours and many (many) unsuccessful attempts, her frustrations began to rise, as did the playful rambunctiousness of her four, young children.

Her attempts at quieting them were as unsuccessful as creating the perfect screen-name. Finding it increasingly hard to think, she found herself repeatedly requesting silence from the little house trolls. Calm down, lower your voices, hush, go to the other room, knock it off, zip it, chill out, and other such requests went ignored.

Her final, semi-shouted command to shush their pie-holes, not only stilled the room of sound for a blessed moment, but became her victory at the keyboard as well.

“JUST – BE – QUIET – PLEASE!”

She was filled with trepidation, dreading another unavailable message but she pressed on, one key after the other. Q w i e t p l e e z. That was it! It was perfect! Her finger hovered over the enter key, she closed her eyes and pressed the button. When she opened them, the message said success!

So, I suppose you’ve guessed it, that young mother was me.

And there you have it, the origins of qwietpleez which lent itself quite adorably, at least to me, as inspiration for the creation of The Qwiet Muse.

Oh, by the way, I realize please is spelled wrong, I like it that way.

Crystal R.Cook aka Qwietpleez

Waking Up is Hard to Do (with apologies to Neil Sedakis)

Feb5

Not a morning person. A morning person, I am not.

Do-do-do yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Waking up is hard to do.

Don’t take my dreams away from me,

don’t make me wake up, I’m so sleepy,

you know I’ll be mad at you,

cause waking up is hard to do.

Remember when you held me tight,

and then we snored all through the night,

think of how we slept right through,

now waking up is hard to do.

They say that waking up is hard to do,

now we both know that it’s true.

Don’t say that this has to end,

instead of waking up,

I wish that were were sleeping in again.

I’m begging you don’t make me rise,

can’t we give our sleep more time?

Come on baby, let’s fall asleep,

cause waking up is hard to do.

(they say that waking up is hard to do)

Oh I know, I know that it’s true.

(don’t say that this dream must end)

Instead of waking up I wish that we were sleeping sound again.

I beg of you don’t say to rise,

can’t we give our dreams another try?

Come on baby, let’s stay asleep, cause waking up is hard to do.

(Yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn) Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn . . .

Where’s my coffee?

Crystal R.Cook

Original by Neil Sedakis – Breaking up is hard to do –

Do do do, Down dooby doo down, down. Comma, comma, down dooby doo down, down Comma, comma, down dooby doo down, down. Breaking up is hard to do.

Don’t take your love away from me

Don’t you leave my heart in misery

If you go then I’ll be blue

Cause breaking up is hard to do

Remember when you held me tight

And you kissed me all through the night

Think of all that we’ve been through

And breaking up is hard to do

They say that breaking up is hard to do

Now I know, I know that it’s true

Don’t say that this is the end

Instead of breaking up

I wish that we were making up again

I beg of you don’t say goodbye

Can’t we give our love another try?

Come on, baby, let’s start anew

Cause breaking up is hard to do

(They say that breaking up is hard to do)

Now I know I know that it’s true

(Don’t say that this is the end)

Instead of breaking up I wish that we were making up again

I beg of you don’t say goodbye

Can’t we give our love another try?

Come on, baby, let’s start anew

Cause breaking up is hard to do

(Down dooby doo down down) Comma, comma, down dooby doo down down Comma, comma, down dooby doo down down Comma, comma, down dooby doo down down Comma, comma, down dooby doo down

Procrastination Evaluation & Silly Dissertation

Jan30

Evaluation Of My Procrastination followed by My Procrastination Dissertation

I don’t procrastinate.

I . . . simply . . . do . . . not . . . procrastinate.

I don’t. Why everyone is always nagging me to get things done, I have no idea. I’m always on the go, always doing, and doing, and doing. Admittedly, there are times it may seem like I’m procrastinating, but really, I’m not.

Take the dishes for example, one might assume since they have been in the dishwater for two hours I am avoiding them. Not the case. Not remotely. They’re soaking. No procrastination there, the dishes will take less time to wash if they have been properly soaked. There is always a method to my madness.

I am quite adept at . . . never mind.

Just, never . . . mind. I’m not going to successfully fool anyone into believing I am anything but a habitual procrastinator. I don’t mean to be. I just have too many things to do during my day and since I’m so busy bustling about, I don’t always get to everything I need to get to.

I always have the best of intentions, but before I know it, the clock has ticked its way to the end of the day and I am rushing to accomplish whatever is in need of being accomplished. I do try to give my attentions to the many important things which need to be done, but it never seems to fail, my mind will wander and I will begin something new, it’s a vicious pattern of behavior which generally leaves me with many things left undone.

Actually, some of my best work is born when there is no time to spare. Not always, but sometimes. My procrastination is in no way premeditated, but I am quite conscious of it, which makes it all the more frustrating. I have a constant dialogue running in my head, “You really should get this done, you really should be doing that, stop this, start that, finish this, finish that.” I rarely listen. I have Christmas cards from maybe a few more than three years ago tucked away on a shelf in the garage. I personalized each one with handwritten notes of yuletide cheer, I put them in envelopes, I addressed them, and yet there they sit. The worst part . . . they have stamps on them.

Terrible isn’t it? All that was left to do was post them off. I thought it would be best to take them to the Post Office personally, I figured the mailman had enough to carry as it was, but I never made it to the Post Office. Christmas came and went as did the welcoming in of a brand new year, and still they sat and still they do, with stamps no longer worth enough to send them on to their intended destinations. Sigh.

If I knew the secret to ridding the world of whatever unseen force afflicts me with this procrastination disease, I would share it with all . . . eventually, when I got around to it. In the meantime, I’ll keep talking to myself, making lists, setting goals, and alarms, and asking those I love to remind me of all I need to do.

I’ve managed to raise children; keep them clothed and fed, I’ve been a loving wife and I’ve kept the bills paid, mostly on time, and the house relatively tidy . . . I’m doing alright.

~ and now ~

My Procrastination Dissertation

It’s not a lack of motivation,
it’s not a lack of inspiration.
Perhaps a lack of preparation,
and a little bit of hesitation
lead to my lack of concentration.

The causation of a new fixation
causes quite a complication
when it comes to application.

Maybe there’s a correlation
with my constant deviation
and my need for relaxation.

I have the aspiration,
I’ve got the inclination,
and by my estimation
I shouldn’t have the aggravation
of this adjudication.

Frustration in vocation
is in this combination,
leading to the culmination
of my current classification
of constant procrastination.

So briefly in summation,
I plead guilty to this accusation,
no need for condemnation.

I can’t give compensation
for my violation,
but as a demonstration
of my dedication,
when I get a chance

I’ll start rehabilitation . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Mother of the Year in one picture.

Jan28

This is photographic evidence of the day I earned my first Mother of the Year award. No wait, I think I had already been awarded two by the time this little munchkin mishap occurred.

I have a collection of them.

You’d think the kind stranger who snapped the photo for us would have said something. He didn’t. No worries, the chubby little troll sliding from his ride was unscathed.

Morning Desire, sort of.

Jan27

I awoke this morning with the strangest, and I do mean strangest desire. The feeling was foreign and unusual, it was weird, at least for me.

People do it all the time, I just don’t much care for it. My husband does it almost every morning, he’s on his own though, I never seem to have enough energy. He says it’s invigorating, the best way to start a new day. I’ve done it in the past out of necessity, but there was never any actual enjoyment in the act.

It doesn’t seem natural to me, but this morning, I took a deep breath and I did it. Truthfully, it felt pretty damn good. I don’t think I’ll make a habit of it, but I suppose if the mood strikes, like it did today, I won’t fight it.

Do you do it? Get out of bed right away in the morning? I fight the waking up and getting out of bed part of my day with fervor, I stay tucked in and cozy as long as I possibly can.

I am going to admit something, this doesn’t mean I will be rising and shining with the breaking of each new day, but I am enjoying the quiet an early morning offers. The coffee my loving hubby brought me before he left for work is still hot and the birds are happily singing a morning song to me. I didn’t even cover my ears and wish them to fly away and take their symphonic cacophony with them like I generally do.

Still, there is a part of me that wants to lay back and snuggle in, but a shower should cure that. Good morning, quite a good morning indeed.

Crystal R. Cook

When you over medicate a writer.

Jan14

I’ve not been feeling well, not well at all. I’ve been coughing and moaning, aching and groaning, all for great and good reason of course, I am sick. And tired. And sick and tired of being so very sick and tired, as anyone would be, quite obviously.

The aches have turned to pains, actual and intense and relentless pains, so much pain, in the matter of all things factual, I can barely walk. My back, the lower portion of it, has tightened and old injuries have found new ways to complain.

No matter, I have Pinterest to keep me occupied and my bed to comfort me. Neither are doing me much good, but at least I am semi, sort of, and somewhat comfortable. But not really.

There was going to be a point to this rambling. I think there was at least. Rambling! That was where I was heading, straight towards the rambling.

Because of the incessant coughing I was experiencing, I took some medication, the packaging clearly made promises of cough calming relief. Inserts included with such medication often make false promises, as this particular insert clearly did.

After some time, I took a muscle relaxer because of the pain induced by the coughing that was anything but being calmed. Because of the coughing and the pain, I was having great difficulty falling into the blissful, healing sleep I so desperately desired and needed, so in my sleep deprived, pain filled, chest congested misery, I added to the mix the smallest dose of something to help me sleep.

In theory, it all seemed the smart thing to do. Theories are sometimes ill-conceived and do not result in the outcomes expected. It was a long and strange night filled with fitful turnings and the oddest sorts of dreams.

I clearly remember waking, several times and reaching for my pen. In my groggy state one thing was clear, brilliant ideas were brewing. I recall writing what I just knew was going to be some sort of inspired masterpiece.

This afternoon, yes, the morning passed me by, I begrudgingly awoke with a wee bit of excitement to read what my subconscious had penned to the page.

Something was seriously amiss. The notebook and the pen and the reading light lay by my side, but the scribblings which greeted me were not quite what I was expecting. Not quite at all. A sampling, I give you . . .

It was, at least I think it must have been, at the very most, three days before the second evening of the month. I remember it was in the eve because she was tucking the sun into the horizon and placing the stars where the sun had spent the last part of the afternoon, and at the very least it could have been only yesterday.

Ticktock, I’m lost and I’m late and it’s almost time for something.

For what?

Something.

How do you know?

Because it’s always almost time for something.

It is?

Yes, actually.

Like what?

Something, for certain. Sometimes lots of somethings.

You’re so dreadfully difficult to understand.

I know. It’s delightful though, isn’t it?

It’s something.

Almost.

It turns out my brilliance was not nearly as brilliant in the light day as it was in the darkest and deepest parts of the night. sigh

Still, perhaps I can use my nonsensical, over-medicated ramblings to create some sort of little story someday. In the meantime, I will return to my misery until it subsides . . .

Crystal R. Cook

The Gobbler Gazette – Thanksgiving Edition

Nov26

Tomorrow is T-Day by Clancy Doo

As we all know, tomorrow is the one day of the year we in the turkey community fear the most. Tensions have been high on farms throughout the county, fewer riots have been reported than at this time last year, thanks in part to the growing popularity of vegetarian cuisine.

The Turkey Rights movement has ~~garnished~~ garnered much attention in recent years and we are seeing more acceptance and respect than ever before, but we still have a long way to go until all turkeys can roam free without fear of being stuffed.

Big thanks to the Johnson Farm who will be feasting on Tofu Turkey this year, and it has been reported the Smith Ranch will be be crafting and dining on homeade soy turkey sculptures.

Many thanks to those who participated in the Save Our Necks rally last weekend, it was a huge success. Proceeds will go the families of this years victims. We will be holding a candlelight vigil Thanksgiving night for all who wish to attend.

Keep your spirits high and your heads low, one day we will be free.

Five Tips That Could Save Your Neck by Clara Doodle

Don’t panic. If you are caught in a mass of fleeing feathers, you risk injury and become easy pickins.
Feign illness. It may sound cheesy, but it worked for Percy Perch last year. No one wants a foul fowl on their table.
Hide. No one will judge.
Suck it in. In their ravenous greed they always go for the fat ones.
Attack back. This is only to be attempted as a last ditch effort if you are caught. If you peck hard enough, you could be dropped, giving you a chance at escape. For those on farms who prefer firearms, please see above.

On a sad note, Elsa Peck passed on early this week, she appeared to have starved to death in an effort to lose weight before the holidays. We can at least be thankful she went peacefully.

Please join us in the East corner of the coop this evening at 5 pm

for a memorial and prayer gathering.

Grief counseling will be provided at no cost, councilors will be standing by until after the New Year, and as always, the support group will continue to meet at its regular time. Next week we will have a guest speaker, the topic will be survivors guilt.

Crystal R. Cook

Turkey Day

Nov26

Eleventeen. It sounds so right.

Oct19

Eleventeen was my favorite number when I was a kid. People thought I was weird, I thought they were weird. When I was told there was no such number I was devastated. When I was three or four years old I pleaded with my Head Start preschool teacher for the inclusion of my beloved number eleventeen, I ever so politely asked her to add it to the numbers she was teaching. I no longer recall what her reply was, obviously she didn’t send my request up the chain of command like I’d expected. To this day, eleventeen has yet to be embraced as a bona-fide number. I fear it never will.

It just sounds so right, doesn’t it?