Sam’s World

Sam had an epic meltdown last night and another one this morning. Two for one special down at Scream Mart or something I guess. I don’t know.

There’s an art to finessing these things so we don’t feed into them while still trying to force the little monster to gain some control. I don’t honestly remember what set him off either time, and once he’s in the heat of one, it doesn’t really matter.

If he were older, just a little older, I could comfortably put him in his room and, barring his own ability to confine himself to its four walls, lock the door and leave. Sometimes, I have to do this anyway, because I’m not willing to sit there and have him throw things at me. Physical restraint just gives him something to fight against, so I only use it when I have to keep him from hurting himself or others.

If it’s a very bad day, I have to leave the whole thing to Scott, because Sam’s rage can inflame mine like nothing else I know. Then, it’s all I can do to contain my own violence, and I’m completely incapable of mothering my own little demon. Thank God Scott is a good Daddy.

Mostly, though, because Sam is such a Mama’s boy, I’m the one who can bring him down. I put him in his room, and, if the meltdown has nothing to do with audience, I sit in there with him, barring the door with my body, and wait him out. It’s always a long wait.

Yesterday, he’d been going ten minutes before it was safe enough for me to enter the room. He’s a thrower. He screeches and bellows and throws things. But he’s learning. He doesn’t throw hard things anymore, when I’m on hand, because I throw the things away that he throws at me.  I’m trying to teach him to punch a pillow or throw a stuffed bear. But frankly, when I hear the bear bashing against the inside of the door while Sam caterwaulers, there’s nothing I can do.

I waited for the pounding to slow and let myself in with him. At which point I realized he wasn’t throwing the bear, he was throwing himself. He was hurling himself at the door, then, at the last second before he hit, throwing his arms up. He would grab the handle, use the energy from his legs in motion to position those just under the hands so that he was dangling there monkeylike, still howling at the top of his lungs. On and on he went, jump catch, scramble, dangle, scream, scream, scream, scream, scream.

Usually, there is a point in these horrible wars where I can see him starting to weary. That’s the moment when I can insert a hug. Or a soft word. But yesterday, he wasn’t tiring even a little. He just kept amping himself up further, and I was about ready to leave again and try in a few minutes or let Scott take a shot.

But that meant detaching him from the door.

So I slid a hand up against his chest.  Though Sam is a tall four and a half, he’s so thin that my hand almost spans that chest. And even when he’s furious, I’m a thousand times stronger than he is. So flung him backwards into my lap.

He kept yelling, but suddenly, he was smiling. Not the demonic smile that means he’s completely out of control, gone-baby-gone, possessed, and out for the kill, but a shocked smile. A smile of amusement. He threw himself back against the door, watching me the whole time. He never stopped the noise, but the smile never went away.

I threw him in the air, and things suddenly went from battle to game.

So I threw him again, back across my legs.

He started laughing, gleeful cackles that were frankly as scary as the screams. My sister used to do this, flip a switch and suddenly go from screeching to laughing. For me, when the anger comes, it lingers. For her, there was a corner at the end of the anger, and she would sometimes round that corner and be experiencing the same emotion on the other side. Still out of control, but laughing. You have no idea how badly it frightens me that Sam does the same thing.

Still, he wasn’t yelling anymore. I threw him three more times and then, in fear for the doorknob’s heath, started tickling him. He loved it. From there, it was at least possible to bring him back down to earth with the rest of us and go on with our evening.

So when he started in with the screaming today, I listened for that point when he was at the cracking edge. It wouldn’t have worked at first. He was too focused on whatever had made him mad in the first place. But as he forgot about that, started remembering only that he was angry, not why, I had a chance, and I took it.

I braced myself on hands and knees, put my face right against his, and shouted, “TICKLE WAR.”

He yelled “NO,” and head butted me in the clavicle.

Good thing he ducked first, or he’d have broken my damned nose. Maybe he was going for the boobs, which push my shirt out to drag the floor without a bra. Anyway, he knocked us both over.I flipped off him, turned him over,blew a great big zerbert on his belly, and said, “Tickle or trampoline. You pick.”

He went for the tickle.

I don’t kid myself that this will last. It didn’t work this afternoon in the car, when all we could do was pull off at a gas station and restrain him. The only certain thing with Sam’s meltdowns is that they’ll keep coming. But I’ll take it while I have it. Another tool in the battle to keep my child from hurting himself. From hurting another.


a flicker of inspiration at Lightning BugHooking up with the folks over at The Lightning and The Lightning Bug for this one. Prompt #34 asks us to change the tone midway through the piece.




I’m also connecting for the first time with the folks over at Just Be Enough. Because this is definitely a situation where Scott and I have to remember all the time that we’re doing the best we can. For those unfamiliar with Sam’s situation, you might want to start here or here

Friday Fluff: Jan 20th 2012

Friday Fluff, January 20, 2012

Fill out this fun Total Randomness Survey and then share it with your friends on facebook, myspace or anywhere else. LIKE MY BLOG!

Hola como estas?

Estoy en necesidad de una margarita

What are you obsessed with?

World peace, as long as it can achieve itself without any help from me

What do you dip your chicken nuggets in?

I don’t.

What was the last road trip you went on?

Cincinnati last December But the link is to a post about a road trip while ON that road trip.

When’s the last time you dance with someone?

Hmmm… Grammar fail. The last time I danced with someone was at Zumba at the YMCA.

What’s your favorite show?

Well, I think right now, My Fair Lady. But Scott and I go to see Spamalot next Tuesday night, so that may trump. We’ll see.

If you could visit anywhere, where would you visit?

Well, anywhere, obviously. It’s kind of stupid when you put the answer in the question.

What’s your ringtone?

For whom? I have a Scottish one for Scott, a light and airy one for my mother, the Russian Dance from the Nutcracker for regular, and for poor Linda an accidentally annoying one that chants “Pick up de phone” to the tune of Beethoven’s 5th. I swear to God it was cute until the first time it actually rang.

What’s the wallpaper on your cell phone?

Red with gold busts of Caesar

Who is the 6th text message in yur inbox from?

“yur”. Shouldn’t that be capitalized and possessive? Like “Who is the 6th text message in Yur’s inbox from?” And how the hell should I know? Who is Yur? Does he live in a Yurt?

Go to your pictures…what is the 33rd pic of?

Which pictures? Phone pictures? I don’t have 33 on there right now. Regular pictures? 33rd in which folder? You know what? Just forget it.

Whose your 78th contact in your phone?

Fuck you. What’s with the damned numbers? Oh and thank you SO much for reminding me I lost half my contacts when my PHONE GOT STOLEN. Now? Shit, I’m lucky if I have 45 contacts, let alone seventy fucking eight. Christ.

Whose your favorite character from The Office?

My time working in an office was extremely traumatic, and I prefer not to discuss it with you.

Have you seen every episode starting from Season 1?

Every episode of everything ever? No. I don’t watch TV.

What color is your hair?


Favorite quote?

“Fuck you”

What kind of car do you have?

Hyundai Sonata

What makes you laugh?

See my blogroll.

Whats the last movie you saw in theatres?

“What” should not be pluralized. That “Whats” wants for an apostrophe. And Sherlock Game of Shadows.

If you could co-star in a movie with any actor/actress you would it be?

“Who” would it be, not “you”. But I shouldn’t be so flip. God, I feel bad about this one. I mean, I consider myself an advocate. So I apologize, but the only actor/actress I know about is Jaye Davidson, and I guess I’d have to go with Stargate in that case. And I promise to learn more about trans actor/actresses, because this is an issue that’s important to me.

 Whats your favorite article of clothing?

Um, I hate to nag, but if I’m going to take the time to correct your grammar, you ought to take the time to pay attention to the lesson. W-H-A-T-Apostrophe-S. Right now, I don’t even have a favorite pair of jeans, and howsabout I promise to come back and answer this in twenty pounds or so?

What were you doing on New Years?

How many new years are we talking about here? It’s a good thing we do the same thing every year, or I’d be writing a really long time. We were at my sister-in-law’s.


When I gasped, my husband asked if I was choking and offered to to help. So when I looked, he was behind me.

What are you looking forward too?

I just looked backwards, now I’m going forward? Make up your mind. I’m looking forward to the computer screen of course. DUH.

Are you the life of the party?

Better that than its death, wouldn’t you agree?

Finish this sentence…You are______

my sunshine, my only sunshine.

If you could meet Barack Obama, what would you ask him?

How the hell did I get past security?

 Pop Tarts or Toaster Struddles?

Ick. Neither.

Dark Chocolate or Milk Chocolate?

Dark. Please.

Truth or Dare?

Truth. Always.

Do you kiss your mom with that mouth?

Only on the cheek, I swear.

Your getting chased by the Easter Bunny! What do you do?!

In days of yore, the Easter Bunny was like a God or something, right? Oh my GOD! I don’t see Your anywhere. He’s gone! You’re really scaring me. I think the Easter Bunny may have eaten Your. I don’t know what to do! What do you and yours suggest?

Whats in your junk drawer?

Get him out!! Isn’t that a little personal?

Whats something about you that no one knows?

I don’t know. Ask no one.

What kinda phone do you have?

Eh. I kinda have a flip phone, except it was stolen. So now, I totally have an Android.

Whats the wallpaper on your computer?

It’s impossible to tell for all the game icons. Addict needs an intervention.

Do you dance when nobody’s watching?

Jesus! Nobody is stalking me again. PEEPING TOM PEEPING TOM!

What’s your race?

Well, since I don’t watch TV, I don’t see The Amazing Race, but my sister-in-law and family got my mother-in-law hooked on it, so it must be OK. Running races makes me really gaspy and stuff, so I guess Queen’s “Bicycle Race”. Since the fat bottomed girls will be riding today.

Whose your loudest friend?


When your having a party, who definitely has to be there?

Damn it, I thought Your got eaten by the Easter Bunny! Now, you tell me he’s really planning a party, and the whole thing was a scam to keep from inviting me so he could invite Who instead? I bet he has What and I-Don’t-Know-Who on that list as well. Thanks a-fuckin’-lot, Your. See what happens to you. Just you see if I worry about you the next time the Easter Bunny comes after you with a goddamned butcher knife.

Whats the best food combo?

Steak and margaritas.

When you need someone to talk to, who do you go to?

Pick up de phone.

Whats your favorite band(s)?

What’s the day of the week? Oh. It’s Friday. OK. Friday, it’s The Cure(s).

What song do you want played at your funeral?

“The Bitch Is Back”

Your mom goes to college!

Great! I’m so happy for her! I’m all about continuing education.

Would you like other people to see your survey answers?

Shit yes. Why the hell else would I post them on my blog?

Enter your nickname to let people know who you are or leave blank to take the survey anonymously
(do not put in your full name)

Jester Queen


Oh! Almost forgot. Attribution sooo important.

Next week is

Ooo – Truth questions. Fun.

And I’m linking up at

Fiction: Waterlogged

Sharon waited in her car until the last possible second, then hugged her jacket tightly and stepped into the deluge. Water sluiced over her hood, cascaded past her shoulders and rolled down her unprotected lower body. Within moments, she was soaked below the hips.

The wind jerked her first one way, then another. Every step forward was a fight, and the slick pavement made her movements pinched. Halfway to the courthouse stairs, she met a pair of wingtips exiting a dark car. Without looking at each other, Sharon and the man fell in step.

He brought up his umbrella, but a blast from behind snapped the bumbershoot’s fabric outward, breaking it cleanly in less time than it had taken the man to raise it.  He threw down its remains.

“Hold on to me,” said Sharon. She was unsure whether she meant to support him or the other way around. It didn’t matter. They hooked arms against the storm, and in so doing gained the stability to run. Pulling each other, they reached the stairs and then the door. The man handed Sharon his briefcase. As she took it, she realized this was Richard, whom she would divorce within the hour. How little he resembled himself as he braced one hand on the wall and pulled with the other against the monsoon.

A sliver of light as the old wood yielded, and Sharon jammed in her foot to force the door outward. Then, as with the umbrella, the wind changed, walloping Richard back. Sharon grabbed his arm again to keep him from falling.

He seized her, and for a moment they teetered on the threshold. Then he gained his balance and propelled them both inside, where the fickle wind slammed the door behind them. They staggered forward together, still connected in that instant, as they moved out of the world where water held sway and into another dominion entirely.


This week’s word over at Trifecta:

Dare to Share at The Lightning Bug

The Lightning Bug.

And Write on Edge


I was born in December of 1976 in Cincinnati, a bare month before the Ohio River froze over.  My parents took me home to rural Ohio, and my Dad went back out on the road. That left Mom home alone with a newborn. In a blizzard.

The front part of our home was built in the mid 1860s. It’s just a very old brick farmhouse.That front area is just one big room with another room above it. (And the upstairs totally unheated.) The middle of the house was added in the 1920s and the back in the 1940s. All sturdy, yes, but poorly insulated.

It got very cold that year. First, Mom closed the upstairs door. Then, she shut off the front room by hanging blankets in the doorway, because the fire she could keep burning couldn’t compete with the drafts that blew down the chimney. Then, the oil line froze, and she hung more blankets between the middle room and the kitchen. The water  froze, even though she ran the pipes religiously. Finally, she was living with me on a little bit of gas heat run through an antique oven.

Besides the new baby, she had pets to take care of, and Mom’s dogs were her other children. She was low on everything, but she couldn’t get out for supplies. The car was frozen shut, and everything in the gas tank was probably iced solid anyway. She couldn’t call out, because the storm had taken out her phone lines. So she got by day to day melting snow on the stove and trying to figure out if she was going to have to walk to town in a blizzard with a new baby.

Then one day, while she was sitting at the kitchen table, a man came banging on the back door shouting “Anybody home?”

It was the mailman.

He hadn’t just stopped in randomly or due to the letter carrier’s creed taken to the nth  degree. My grandparents in Loiusville had sent in the rescue brigade. Frantic when they lost phone contact with Mom, they called down to Dave’s Grocery five miles away in Marathon. They asked if anybody had seen Mom. When nobody had, the grocers got the mailman involved.

I’m not sure what he was driving, and I know Mom didn’t have much to take with her, but he fit  my mother, newborn me, and both dogs into his vehicle. We stayed with him and his wife until my grandparents arrived in the camper to take us all home to Louisville for the remainder of the winter.They had already gathered in their relatively small home my great grandmother and her sister and another distant aunt of some variety before we arrived.

Whenever my grandmother told the story, she showed me the scratch marks on the door, where Mom’s golden retriever, Sissy, jumped up and demanded to be let out every morning. She shrilled her fears of what could have happened. She conveyed a sense of portentous fear.

When Mom told the story, it became an adventure. Not exactly thrilling or starring Errol Flynn, but not at all gloomy or frightening. Just one of those things we had to deal with to live in the country, with a cozy family gathering at the end. I liked Mom’s version better. I’m certain she made sure it felt safer. Because seriously, I grew up in that farmhouse. She didn’t want me worried about meeting my own ghost some January night. She didn’t want me frightened of the next blizzard.


I’m hooking this up with Story Dam’s weekly Dam Burst prompt which asked us to present a story about somebody stuck in the worst part of winter. I wouldn’t have had room for any fictionalized version, though I’m sure I have some details wrong.

Censorship (it’s ugly)

Update: WE WON


Take a look at the Google homepage today. Or don’t. Who knows if ‘today’ is even when I have posted this anyway. Here’s what I’m wanting you to see:

Here’s the ‘please don’t censor the web!’ link from above.

Take Action

If you happened to visit Wikipedia on Tuesday, you found this:

Powerful stuff. Some of the most influential websites are protesting censorship. (And here’s another petition, by the by: Fight SOPA)

Here’s what got people all up in arms. There are two bills making the rounds of the House and Senate. SOPA  (Stop Online Piracy Act) is the house version. PIPA (Protect IP Act – presumably IP is Internet Privacy, but it could be just IP, like an IP address) is the one making the rounds of the senate.

The actual bill texts are linked above, but the overall gist of both is very bad for anybody who actually puts content on the net. I’ll stop here to address something key to understanding the problem. These fuckers are marketing tools. Both bills have deceptive names. Stop Online Piracy? Woah! That sounds like a GOOD thing, right? Who the hell wants to encourage idea and content theft? Protect IP where “IP” has something to do with the Internet? That sounds seriously necessary. Doesn’t it? Yah. Bullshit.

Both bills are worded so vaguely that an unidentified government agency could step in and call just about anything piracy. So sites like Wikipedia, where people reproduce pictures from other sites, would be affected. Sites like Regretsy, where April Winchell makes a merry mockery of Etsy crap by posting the original pictures, would also be threatened. Because even though Winchell religiously attributes things, anybody who didn’t want her to use their images could prevent her from doing so, simply to silence her ‘negative’ reviews. (For the record? People featured on Regretsy usually make tons of money, because half the time, somebody sees the garbage and WANTS it.)

Oh. To make this point, Winchell has also blacked her site out for a day, complete with a message satirizing what a seizure might look like if either of these bills make it into law. (She’s scarily accurate, though.)

Let me be clear here. Original content creators deserve to be compensated for their work, where such is appropriate. (If you posted it without the expectation of payment in the first place, you still deserve attribution.) Identity theft is criminal. It is a bad thing.

And SOPA and PIPA do not represent adequate efforts to end the real problems. Rather, they are poorly worded attempts to censor the net. They are knee-jerk reaction bills designed by groups who don’t care if they quash free speech in the name of protecting privacy and copyright/trademark.

The implications are far reaching, and anybody could potentially be affected. It’s worth your time to take a minute and sign the petitions above. I took the time to actually contact my congress persons several weeks ago. (They sent back bland letters suggesting they barely knew what an internet was, let alone what to do about one. But then, it isn’t surprising given where I live that these guys aren’t really aligned with my viewpoints on most issues.)

If you have a blog, do a post. If not, circulate those petitions on Facebook and Twitter. Let’s take collective action against censorship before 1984 shows up in our inboxes.

At the Museum Center

OK, back in December, I posted briefly about our family’s visit to the Cincinnati Museum Center at Union Terminal. I teased you with a picture I took with my cell phone, because I can’t hook the big camera up to the netbook. (Canon is morally convinced I’ll blow the camera’s mind if I don’t load the driver discs first, and I don’t have a disc drive in the netbook.) Also, the upload speed on my aircard is slower than dialup.

I took lots of pictures with the big camera. Here are some down at the holiday train display

Sam sees himself

Train detailCaroline finds the cameraThat’s my awesome mother-in-law standing with Scott and the kids. I think about ten minutes into the tour all four of them were totally ready for me to put down the camera, but I was only getting started.

Because after the trains came this whole other holiday section. It included these stunning historical examples:

What are you?

Oh no!Yeah. I really believe this.Those. Are. Not. Reindeer. They are JACKELOPES. White-haired demon-horned JACKELOPES. That’s the stuff Christmas nightmares are made of right there, kiddies. Thank God they don’t talk anymore.

Other than those guys, the holiday section was nice, and it ended in a giant mural.

At the end of the holiday hallI used my ‘small’ lens to photograph this, but since it was at eye level, the detail is really easy to see.

Here’s another eye level mural

Here's the full muralAnd I also took a close-up of the tiles, still with the small lens.

And here's the detail of his legThis is one of the large murals way up in the arch ceiling of the … I guess it’s called rotunda area

This is also one I also posted from my cell phone

I zoomed in some with my little lens, and that was pretty cool, but it was NOTHING compared to what I got when I pulled out the big lens. Check THESE out.

Here's a close up of the seaman

And one of the workersThose things are forty feet up in the air, but the zoom on the big lens is so complete that I might as well be standing on top of the picture. The number of hours it must have taken to create that image, tile by tile boggles my mind.

OK, that’s the end of my picto-geek tour. Thanks for reading along. And if you’re ever in Cincinnati, take the time to see Union Terminal. It’s not a place that will quickly leave your mind.


I was 9 years old on January 28th, 1986, in Mrs. McMullen’s third grade class. We had one of those awful pods where five classes had been crammed into a giant room, separated by dividers. But there weren’t any dividers that day. The teachers had pushed them all over to the wall so we could turn in our seats to view the tiny television set up over in Mrs. Davis’s room. We were all excited, because we were going to watch the space shuttle Challenger take off.

Now, some of you reading this knew where I was going as soon as you read the date. Because you, too were somewhere on January 28th 1986. You, too, remember exactly what you were doing. Because your lives were marked by that moment. Even if you were personally unaffected by the deaths of the six astronauts and one courageous school teacher, you knew its significance. Your life was thereafter identified by ‘before’ and ‘after’ the explosion. And in recalling that moment, you doubtless recalled other such moments of demarcation, some personal, some very public. JFK’s death. Elvis’s. Nixon’s resignation. The assassination attempt on Reagan. September 11th 2011.

Without prompting, I can tell you that I sat in the middle pod, that even though the teachers closed the curtains, I could barely see the TV because the sun glared through the window right behind it, and that I knew exactly what had happened when the shuttle broke apart, even though they turned down the sound right away. We only watched for a few minutes after that. The principal said something unmemorable over the loudspeaker, the dividers went back up, and we tried to have a normal rest of the day. Except that normal had shifted in a way all of us could feel.

My kids were both born to a post 9/11 world. And so far no disaster has shaken either of their roots to the point of memory. Although Caroline was alive during hurricane Katrina, she was two, and we lived in Lexington, Kentucky. Her preschool class gave all their tzedakah money to the survivors, and she understood what happened at the time, but she doesn’t remember it. And several events in both of my kids’ childhoods have changed them, but they are all personal events, rather than public ones. So they do not yet share with their friends, or even each other, a point of before and after when normal became something else. But it will come. And when it does it will mark us as a family. It will mark us again as a nation.


*Caroline attended Gan Shalom Preschool at the Ohavay Zion synagogue in Lexington, Kentucky. I can’t say enough wonderful things about the program. Among other things, the kids collected tzedakah money, money for charity, and used it to send help those in need.

That’s nice, Jessie, but now I’m distracted. Take me back to where I was.

This post is for the Write On Edge Surprise Prompt featuring a desolately beautiful shuttle launch photo. That pictures is actually from 1999, but I thought immediately of 1986. I have not yet read the other submissions, but I fully expect to see a lot of Challenger memories, because it is January, and because most of us are old enough to remember.

Don’t Steal My Sunshine (I’ll Share It)

I won The Sunshine award! The amazing Queen of Alyssaland has bestowed it upon me, and it is now my stately duty to pass it on to three more bloggers and answer these fun questions.

Favorite color?

Varies. I’m pretty big on purple clothes, but I like sunny yellow walls, and I’ve never had objections to basic black.

Favorite animal?

Sam. No, seriously, I’m a cat person. We don’t have any because of Scott’s allergies, but I had tribes of them growing up.

Favorite number?

I suppose 14.

Favorite drink?

Margarita. Lime. With salt. Though our friends Dennis and Kristi have got Scott and I branching out, and I’ve discovered an undeniable fondness for pomegranate martinis.

Facebook or Twitter?

Facebook. The constant updates drive me batshit crazy, but I cannot condense myself to 140 characters on a regular basis. I don’t buy that doing so increases my creativity, and I primarily use Twitter to share my blog or say things that only need a few words anyway. (219 char. I did that on purpose)

Your passion?

Writing. Without any question at all. Writing.

Giving or getting presents?

Depends. Mostly, getting. But if I have got the perfect thing, GOD I love to give a good gift.

Favorite day?

My birthday.

Favorite flower?

That one has changed a few times. I used to be nuts for sunflowers, and then it was roses. Right now, I’m really into the scent of gardenias.

Most important of all, I do hereby spread the sunshine to the following bloggers. You won’t be sorry when you drop by their pads.

Should they choose to accept they will be bound by these rules:

1. Thank the person who gave this award and write a post about it. (I feel weird putting that in there. Here’s an award, now thank me for it.)

2. Answer the same questions I did above.

3. Pass the award along to other bloggers, link to their blogs and inform them of the honor that has been bestowed upon them.

The Accidental Cootchie Mama: Andra Watkins’ sly wit constantly catches me by surprise. Some of my favorite posts are the ones laced with misdirection and seeded with hilarious links.

If This is Motherhood: I think Bella and I are twins born a couple of years apart to different parents. My favorite posts are the ones where she speaks candidly about her struggles to raise two gifted boys and her series “This Is Who I Am”.

Mangetout: Purely aside from the fact that she lives in France, where I someday yearn to at least visit, earlybird has a knack for rendering images into words without reducing beauty to syrup. I love her recipes, and this month, I’ve been enjoying her River of Stones series.

Friday Fluff (On a Sunday)

Confession. When I was a teen, I used to take quizzes obsessively. I subscribed to Sassy magazine and thrived on its multiple choice options.  I obsessed over the scores and tried to decide if the answers were accurate, or if they even applied to me, since I hadn’t been able to find anything very close to my own experiences in the possibilities.

I do not miss those days.

Which is why, when some of my favorite bloggers like Dawnie and Alyssa started completing quizzes written by teenagers and answering them with grown up sarcasm, I laughed heartily and then moved on. Because, I don’t miss those days.

But the more I read, the more I found myself interjecting my own snarky, sarcastic answers. And when a new blog that I’d only just started reading, Seeking Elevation, had even more funny responses to these misspelled, absurdly worded, bizarre questions, I couldn’t hold back any longer.

It happens once a week. It’s called Friday Fluff. If you want to play, this week’s questions (Jan. 13) came from here. Next week’s questions (Jan 20) will be from here. And when you’re done, you can linkup over at Seeking Elevation, like I’m about to do.

Are you an early riser?

No. But I love the song “Early Morning Riser” by Pure Prairie League.

Do you shower before or after work?

In the middle actually

Do you have a gym mebership?

No, but I am a meMber of the Y.

Do you go to the gym everyday?

Let’s talk grammar. “everyday” Is a compound word. It means commonplace. It should be used in phrases like “an everyday occurrence”. Every [space] day means “each day”. And no.

Do you take unscheduled breaks at work?

You assume I’m “at work” when I’m working. Next question.

Are you tired during the day?

Does a bear shit in the woods?

Do you stop at a grocery store every day?

Not even when I worked at one.

At week ends you stay home all day in your pajamas watching tv?

So much to go with on this one. I’ll have to go with “I hate TV”.

You have a few drinks in the evening?

That sentence was declarative; it should have ended in a period. And some evenings, yes.

If you are retired, are you online most of the day?

Wait. You assumed I was “at work” four questions ago. Now you want to know if I’m retired?  Excusez-moi. Je crois que vous êtes confus.

Do you cook?

Doesn’t everyone?

Do you eat out most of the time?

See here.

Do you spend lots of time on the phone?

No. On rare occasions, I’ll get a call from someone I have not spoken with in too long, and we will spend three or four hours gabbing. But even at that, it doesn’t stretch out to be enough to justify my cell plan most months.

If at work, do you chat online on company’s time or texting?

Now we’re back to assuming I’m at work. What is it with you?!  And by “chat” do you mean “IM” or “talk on the phone”? And what is “texting’s time”?

If there’s a party on Sunday night and you have to work in the morning, do you party anyways?

It’s “anyway” and hell yes, I do. I have years of being a geeky teen who didn’t get invited to parties at all to make up for. Unfortunately, all my friends probably have to work, too, so odds are, we’re all done by 9 o’clock.

Do you take a day off from work just so you can go shopping or fishing?

If I were remotely interested in either activity, I might. As I’m not, I don’t.

Do you feel great when you get up in the morning?

This is a trick question, right? To see if I’ve changed my mind from number one? Let’s put it this way. My sleep shirts all have messages. One says “Punish the Perky”. Another says “I’m awake. What more do you want?”

Do you feel like your daily duties are more like KP duty?

Many of my duties are kitchen patrol duties. Except my saint of a husband does even more of those than I do, so we don’t live in a sty.

Do you go to bed before midnight?


Do you take an afternoon nap?

See above


Bra Wars

It’s not like I enjoy wearing a bra. I refused to put one on until sixth grade when my PE teacher complained to the principal that he could see my boobs jiggling when I ran. They were that big. And he was that much of a stunted perv. (Stunted because he was horrified; perv because he was looking.) So the school made me wear a bra back when I was only a B cup. (And a B cup at age 12 is something noteworthy, I guess.).

For reasons I won’t go into here, I can’t wear one with underwires. That means that even now that I’ve been conditioned into feeling naked when my boobs are flopping along near my midriff, I get almost no support from what I do put on. Maybe they make them that work for people of my dimensions. But I haven’t found one yet. And I’m not looking that hard, because I’ve found a brand that offers a reasonable balance between comfort and support. They’ve even come down in price recently so I don’t have to pawn out my children anymore to buy one.

That said, I own a sufficient number of bras that I shouldn’t ever lose them all. Even if I can’t find a particular one at any given time, I ought to be able to grab a bra whenever I need one. But I can’t. It’s a given that if I want to go somewhere, I can’t lay hands on even one upper body foundation garment.

I’m sure it’s Freudian. I hate my bras. I don’t really want to find one. They’re scratchy in one place and pinchy in another, and as soon as I put one on, my breasts beg for release.  “Comfort” is a relative term. But, aside from the ‘people are staring’ issue, the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders do help distribute the weight, so that I’m breaking my shoulders, neck, AND back, not just my back alone, with my G cups.

While I have reached a point in my life where I own six or so that fit, I still yearn to find the perfect blend of price, comfort, and yes beauty. There, I said it. I want cute bras. I cannot find adorable bras in my size at all. Even the ones with a little lace are pretty industrial grade.

It goes without saying that I’m planning surgery. I’m only twenty pounds from my goal weight, and then my missiles are going back to the factory. And when I’m back to a perfectly normal C cup, I plan to buy Wal-Mart out of cheap, flowery, pastel, soft cotton braces. I’ll also raid the naughty section for matched sets of bright red, hot pink, lacy, gauzy, tawdry undergarments. When my bosom is less luxurious, I’ll be able to wear my bras strapless and banded. I’ll have sports bras and formal bras, casual bras for around the house, sleeping bras for going to bed, and I might even branch out into pasties. (Well, no. I won’t go that far. I’m not into taping sensitive skin.)

I know that women with small breasts yearn for large ones and vice versa, but my boobs and I are at war. Within the next year, I’m going down in size. And then, I know, I will find the perfect bra.


I’m linking this post up with the folks at Story Dam who asked for a story of under 600 words that fits with the theme of “Where is it”, in which a character has lost something important.