Don’t Forget the Cup

What I needed

I’m having one of those rare yay me kind of days, at least I was. I got up early this morning, despite my lack of sleep due the absence of my husband’s snoring, which is odd since it usually keeps me awake. He’s out-of-state so the bed’s all mine. Well, mine and my dog shadow, Arabella. She doesn’t snore.

I set about cleaning and organizing and dusting. Stuff that makes you feel accomplished and worthy and less like the stay in your PJs, write all day, and let the dust fall where it may self you typically are. Maybe that’s just me though. So, I’m caught up on laundry, dishes are done, floors are swept, blah, blah, blah.

I was kicking cleaning ass and then, BAM! I ran head on into a wall of tired so hard it just about knocked me down. I needed coffee . . . quickly. I still had stuff to do so I set it to brew and hefted a load of towels to the closet. I could smell the coffee, it was divine. The aroma was strong, I could almost feel the energy it was dripping out for me.

I zombie walked my way to the kitchen, when I saw it, a wave of confusion washed over me, then realization. Realization that I’m a part-time ditz and full-time lost cause.

Cup Required

So now I know what happens when you don’t strategically place a receptacle beneath a streaming flow of hot, liquid life nectar. It’s sad.

I have to give a shout out to my beautifully decorative drying mat, talk about absorbency. What could have been a mess of disastrous proportion was reduced to a fairly quick clean-up.

Absorbent and Lovely

I learned a valuable lesson today, don’t wait too long to make coffee, drink up before you’re too tired to remember the darn cup.

I remembered this time

I will try to listen.

Aug18

My thoughts are coming undone,
slowly drifting into a fog of
forgetfulness, filled with confusion.
They are calling, I hear the echo
of their voices, but cannot clearly see
through the ever thickening haze.
Blindly seeking to find them
in a swirling mist of
missing moments,
reaching into the darkness,
hoping to bring them home.
Sometimes, a brilliant sun rises,
rays of clarity pierce the veil,
forcing the clouds and the shadows
to fade, I collect the ones I can,
trying to trap them in my heart
and penning them to a page.
I don’t want to lose them,
what happens when they’re gone?
How will I know who I am
and how will I know who I was?
If I forget, you’ll tell me if I will listen,
I promise I will try to listen.

Crystal R. Cook

Argh. My crazy might be showing.

Aug18

It’s just a touch off center,
the lines aren’t lined up right,
so much is so uneven,
everyday this is my plight.

Too many things are skewed,
unbalanced, wrong and off,
I cannot help but notice,
I cannot make it stop.

Labels are always crooked,
cushions are slightly turned,
stupid slanted bumper stickers
cause unwarranted concern.

Tell me why it’s so damn hard
to replace the toilet paper right,
when someone rips a sheet in half
it keeps me up at night.

It’s positively crazy,
ridiculous and insane,
it’s not a conscious effort,
just something in my brain.

I try to look away,
and think of other stuff.
I tell myself it’s silly,
but it’s like I’m stuck.

I’m not obsessively obsessive,
I just notice little things,
you’d completely understand
if you were slightly OCD.

Crystal R. Cook

Her Little World

Aug17

She sits and picks the wild daisies
that grow in the cracks on the sidewalk,
she thinks they must have broken it
as they began to grow.
Careful not to step on the ones
she leaves behind, she skips along
down the road until she reaches
what she calls the river.
Kneeling there, where the sidewalk
meets the road, she drops the petals
one by one into the raging rapids at her feet.
She watches them dance in the waters flow
until they reach the end of the line,
disappearing into the darkness she’s
too afraid to explore. She tells herself
it’s just a place where the rain
and candy wrappers go, but she’s uncertain.
There’s a tree on the other side of the road,
the neighbors say they’ll be cutting it down,
but they never do. She’s pondered a protest
like the ones on TV, but she doesn’t think
it will come to that, at least that’s what her
father says. She almost forgets to be afraid
as she reaches the creepy house on the corner,
thankfully, she reminds herself just in time.
This is her world, one end of the street
to the other. She doesn’t know it’s much bigger
than this, with dark places and creepy houses
and trees people don’t care about anymore.
She’s always careful not to step on the daisies,
she doesn’t yet know everyone else thinks
they’re nothing but weeds.

Crystal R. Cook

You Painted Me a Picture

Aug17

You painted me a picture once,
a long, long time ago.
The colors came to life,
and set the room aglow.
They danced within the shadows,
Did you see them there?
And, oh, the melody it sang, so sweet,
I still can hear it in the air.
It tenderly embraced me,
such warmth upon my skin.
I wish you’d written down those words
so I could hear them once again.

Crystal R. Cook

Rainbow in the Dryer -or- The Sock Queen

Aug17

Another shoebox classic . . .

Guess what a blue crayon, a pink crayon and a green crayon make in the wash . . . a rainbow in the dryer. Normally, I am a quite fond of rainbows, but for some odd reason I found no beauty in the brilliant colors splashed across my last good shirt, my socks and every other wearable article of clothing I owned.

As I began pulling my ruined wardrobe from the dryer I spotted them, a little yellow (blue and pink and green) pair of shorts which more than obviously did not belong to me, so in my loudest, meanest mommy voice I shrieked for their owner. She appeared in the doorway with a look of fear and feigned innocence in her eyes.

After a few renditions of “It wasn’t me!” and “I haven’t even used crayons in years.” I pulled the paper wrapper from a blue crayon out of the pocket of her little yellow (blue pink and green) shorts. “Oops, I guess I forgot I put them there.” was her only reply. Oh well, no use crying over spilled milk or brightly colored melted wax. What was done was done. I tossed around the idea of tye-dying all of our clothes in case it ever happened again but decided it would be best to just check pockets a little better from that point on.

The laundry room is my least favorite place in the house aside from the kitchen, the kid’s rooms and their bathroom. I just know someday I’m going to go in and never make it out. I suppose it’s my own fault for letting the kids wear clean clothing day after day.

When I was a little girl I dreamed of becoming an archeologist, of traveling to far off lands and uncovering buried artifacts from days long since past. In some small way my dream has been realized. However, instead of some distant shore on the other side of the earth it’s the cold garage in the back of the house and instead of discovering long lost treasures I simply find LEGOs and coins and candy wrappers . . . and unfortunately the occasional crayon.

I keep a large flower vase on the shelf above the dryer. I use it as a collection bin for all the little trinkets that find their way into the laundry room by way of un-emptied pockets. Someday it will serve as a memory jar for them. I will present it to the first one who complains their dryer has become a rock tumbler at the hands of the precious grandchildren I may one day be blessed with.

I have another jar up there for found money. I never give it back or inquire as to whose it may be. Most of it is their hard earned, as little as I can get away with allowance money which I simply use to pay their following weeks allowance with. I rarely have to dip into my own pockets to pay their weekly bribe money, they practically pay themselves!

Another aspect of laundry I despise, perhaps most of all, is socks. Don’t get me wrong. I love the warmth they give on a winter’s day and the comfort they provide in my favorite pair of tennis shoes, but when it comes to their care and maintenance I shudder at the thought of them.

First, there is getting them into the washer to be laundered. Sounds easy enough right? Well, it’s not. At least two of my boys take the foul things off in such a way they are rolled into little balls or donut shaped rings. I need a gas mask and a haz-mat suit just to straighten them out. Once they are in the washer, no problem. Throw them in the dryer, piece of cake. Taking them out is where the trouble begins.

I have only myself to blame truthfully. I have a sock basket. It is a tradition passed down from one generation to the next in my family. The idea is to have a small basket next to the dryer to place the clean socks in while you fold the rest of the laundry. Seems like a great idea except I never quite got the hang of it, I have a rather large sock basket. Okay, it’s a full size hamper, but with six pairs of feet in the house there are a lot of socks. My problem is I leave them in the basket until every last sock in the house has been dirtied, cleaned and deposited there. When that happens, I become The Matchmaker . . .

They assemble before me each week, huddled together in anticipation for they know by day’s end their solitary existence will be over. I carefully sort through them to find each one its perfect mate. Sadly though, every now and then, there a few I simply cannot pair up and they must return to the basket alone. The sad soles. When my task is complete I take the newly matched socks to the various closets and drawers they will call home. I wish them well and bid them adieu. Unfortunately, they never stay together long. They always come back alone, waiting for me to find them another perfect mate.

I’m one day going to come out with my own line of children’s clothing. I will specialize in socks. They will have brown soles made from the finest of stain resistant materials, no toes will ever peek through and no heels will ever wear thin. They will be crafted in such a way they cannot be taken off inside out and they will remain together in every wash, guaranteed.

I will be known as the Sock Queen and mothers all around the world will adore me. Come to think of it, there may be an offshoot for children’s underwear along these lines as well . . . School uniforms with a mustard, ketchup and playground dirt motif. I may just end up famous after all.

I suppose for now though I will gather together my supplies and trek off into the laundry room. Who knows what wonders I will uncover on my expedition.

Old (made up) Proverb – Women who sort laundry by color have too much time on hands.

Crystal R. Cook aka The Sock Queen

Woe is me.

Aug17

I have a headache. It sucks. It bites. It’s not cool. It’s just not right. It’s lame. It’s a bummer. It’s a downer. It’s for the birds. It’s the pits. It’s whacked. It’s pathetic. It’s not even funny. It’s super crappy. It’s not fair.

Maybe it isn’t a headache, maybe it’s a tumor. Judging by the above I’d say it just may be. Maybe I have finally lost too many brain cells or maybe I am actually going to have that nervous breakdown I’ve been threatening my husband with.

Nah, I don’t have time for a nervous breakdown. I don’t even have time for this headache. Sitting here at the computer reading and writing isn’t helping I’m sure, but neither will doing the laundry or going grocery shopping.

At least the house trolls are still asleep.

Well, that’s all. I didn’t really have anything to say. Just thought I’d moan and groan a little and see if anyone would feel sorry for me.

I’m off to raid the medicine cabinet for some Advil and find an ice pack.

Take Refuge

Aug16

The self-appointed mighty
stand upon precarious pedestals
of judgment and power,
built from the ruins
of what could have been.

They placate the people
with empty platitudes
and false promises,
just enough to quell
their concerns
and keep them
from questioning
the hidden agendas
they do not want known.

The weak are so willing
to worship at this
looming altar of illusion,
carrion for the vultures
to fill their already
bloated bellies.

They spew proclamations
of progress carefully
crafted to deceive,
like snake oil
peddlers of old,
they sell their lies
and the people buy
without question,
it’s easier than thinking
for themselves.

They drink the Kool-Aide
while begging for more
even as the poison
consumes them.

A surrender of self
is underway,
conform or be cast out,
set adrift in a dying sea.

Stand up and be shot down,
speak up and be silenced.

You have the
right to listen
but no longer
the right to speak,
unless of course,
you’re reading
from their script.

They’ve lined
the citizens up,
filed them into
a maze, all
vying for some
non-existent prize.

Misguided and
delusional, dropped
into an inescapable
labyrinth, lab rats
bending to the will
of their captors,
easily manipulated,
completely expendable.

The puppet masters drool
as they watch their folly,
not even knowing
they’re attached to strings too.

With feigned disdain
they watch the innocent suffer,
quantifiable loss is ignored.

Mindless masses
frolic like fools,
but there’s a storm coming
and they refuse to take refuge.

The weatherman says
it will pass them by,
the weatherman is always right,
except when he’s wrong.

There’s a storm coming
and it’s going to rain.

Oh, how it will rain.

Crystal R. Cook

Coffee Shop Moment

Aug15

I am out of the house. At Starbucks. Alone. The coffee shop is one of my favorite places to be, and not just for the coffee, believe it or not. It started with the coffee of course, but it didn’t take long to realize there was so much more to my outings than a good cup of coffee.

Most days there’s a kind of quiet here I can’t find anywhere else and the company quite often fascinates me. Most days. This morning I’m only five minutes into my much anticipated mini retreat and the gathering crowd is beginning crowd me. Todays caffeine connaisseurs are chatty and a bit on the rude side.

I’ll just sit here and write, avoiding eye contact and any possibility of accidentally appearing available for conversation, basically what I typically do anyway. You might not believe this, but I’m not much of a people person. I’ve tried to be, I admit I haven’t employed Herculean effort into my attempts at human contact, but occasionally I smile at people, that’s trying. A little.

My moment has passed. This is not turning out to be the morning I had hoped for. I’m only halfway through my venti iced coffee and thoughts of poking people in the eyes with a straw are washing over me. Just so you know, I wouldn’t do it, straws are bendy, not nearly reliable enough.

I swear I am a good person. I am.

Thankfully, the mouthy masses are moseying off to . . . other pastures. Not sure where I was going with that, all the chatter messed with my ability to form coherent thought. Maybe I can salvage the last five minutes before reality resumes and I head home to face the laundry pile.

. . . . . . . .

This morning was just made perfect. God is good, He knows just what we need and when we need it. I finished my coffee which prompted a trip to the restroom. There was a young man tapping his foot and singing to himself while waiting for the men’s room to open up. The ladies room was occupied as well so I stood in that little hallway, listening to his song.

He noticed me listening. I asked if he had a song stuck in his head. He nodded and told me it was a good one . . . Then, he took a step closer and looked me in the eyes, he serenaded me with his song.

I couldn’t understand the words, but I felt them. Each one leaving goosebumps on my arms. He was precious, he was pure and real and his sweet heart touched my soul.

A few people took notice, they stared, some even smiled. When a Down’s syndrome angel gives you a gift, you take hold of it and treasure it always.