100 Words: Wayward Son

He strolls right through the front door every Friday without knocking, though he's never lived here.  He'll spend his time eating our food, flipping through our channels and catching up on juicy family gossip. He might even remember to ask about his nephews.
I'll pretend it doesn't bother me that he dyed his beautiful blond curls a patchy, weak black. I'll let the other kids razz him for it. Next time we see him, it'll be back to normal.
When he's had all he can take of us, he'll rise, stretch, and say those three little words...

"I need money."

The Brain Should Rest

I moved into this small rental place last October. You probably already knew that, but let's pretend you're new here, just for giggles. (For those of you who didn't give up profanity as your New Year's Resolution, you can say Shits n Giggles.)
Several boxes have gone unpacked for those months, mainly craft crap.
I wish I had taken a "before" pic, but in hindsight all things...yadda yadda yadda...
The other place had built-in storage. This place, not so much. I spontaneously bought these stack-able closet organizers at Target and put them together for my brand new "Craft Like a Rock Star" craft center. Then I had to custom make the boxes to put into the cubbies, because those cubbies are actually supposed to hold shoes, not craft supplies, and you can't buy storage containers that size anywhere. I looked on Pinterest, hoping to find an amazing way to quickly produce the damn (shucks, I mean darn) things, but nothing I found was quite right for my project. I busted out the old T-square and some decorative paper left over from my artsy fartsy purse-making days, and conjured up some amazing boxes.
So I took some pictures. Don't ask me how to make these. This is not a craft blog.

Look, I even color-coordinated a couple of them!

But that's not what I wanted to show you. 

This is.

It's an old print of mine I bought at a yard sale many, many years ago. 

The artist simply signed Madeline. It was printed in 1976.

I want to find out more about it. Does anybody else recognize it? 

I searched the web over and through. No luck.

I'll Give it to You Good

My biggest New Year Resolution this year is to give more without giving more money. Actually, I'd like it to be that I don't give any money, but they take those United Way and We Care donations right out of my check, so that's a bust. So, it's settled that I simply won't give any more money than that.
No five dollar bills for the homeless guy on the corner.
No spare change for the Fireman's Boot.
No fishing for quarters for the Salvation Army bucket.
My Dimes will not be Marching anywhere.
I'll feel like a jerk as I pass these folks by, but that's the way it's got to be.
I'm not made of money after all.
I'm a single mom with a small paycheck and big rent!

Instead, I'll give the things that don't cost me a cent to give away.

I've already started.

I gave Destiny my old refrigerator that still works great. She had to come get it herself, though, because I only have a car. No truck. My dog became very aggressive and bit her. She ended up with a huge bruise and hasn't been back to my house, but hey, she got a free fridge, so it's all good.

One thing leads to another in this life. My dog became more and more aggressive, started fights with the neighborhood dogs, chased the mailman, lunged for my two-year-old grandson. Other horrible things happened, and so I made the very very hard decision to have her put down.

I bawled and bawled and bawled. I've made some very hard decisions in my life, and this one is pretty high up on the list. I hope you never have to do it.

But, because of that, I had a bunch of leftover dog food, which I was able to donate to Pam from Seafood who is on medical leave from work. Her short-term disability hasn't kicked in yet, so she was running low on funds. Dog food. One less thing she'll have to worry about for a little while.

Her dog was excited to see me. She was a happy, playful little pooch. Nothing like my dog, which made me realize that my decision wasn't necessarily an evil, self-centered thing. There was actually something seriously wrong with my dog.

Another thing I'm giving away is clothing. I did that thing that they say you should do. I tossed all the clothes I haven't worn in over a year, packed 'em up, and they are waiting patiently to be hauled to the thrift store. My closet is so empty.

Other things that don't cost me money to give?
Time.
Hugs.
Friendship.
Advice.
Encouragement.
Smiles.
Hey, I'm even willing to give you a hard time, if that's your thing.
I'm generous like that.

Unique to me?
I suppose I could give more paintings away.
I could edit something you wrote.
I could write more stories.

Speaking of that, I wonder where I left Mia and Neely.
I should probably give them a good ending.

Spontaneity. It's a Problem.

I was having writer's block this morning, so I decided it was time for me to take a shower, deodorize, fix my hair and go out into the "real world" where people can view one another in the flesh. They can either smile and wave at one another, or they can scowl and pretend to ignore one another, depending on their moods. I tend to smile most of the time, as long as I'm nowhere near my job.

Going to the park or the zoo is not really a option for me. I have horrible outdoor allergies. I would have to take a heavy dose of allergy meds either before or after my adventures in the sun, which, let's face it, is not a cure for writer's block at all. I have to find a nice place indoors to roam.

The only problem around here, is that there's really no interesting place to go that I haven't been to a million times before, so I ended up at Walmart with the rest of society's rejects. The only thing I can say for myself is that I didn't wear my jammies and slippers. Other than that one small difference, I appeared to roam aimlessly around the store just like all the other mindless zombies I saw there, filling my cart full of things I probably could have lived without.

I remembered I needed to pick up some putty I saw on TV to repair the leak in the rain gutter that causes rain and melted snow to pour directly onto anyone attempting to knock on my front door. (No, I didn't intend for it to do that. I think the house might be adjusting to my personality and shunning all humanity on my behalf.)

The putty was $3.97. The allergen-blocking heater filter was $8.88. The acai-berry-detox pills were $9.97. The avocado/oatmeal face mask was $1.27. The LED key chain flashlight was $4.97.

Need I go on?

Thank goodness, I stopped myself before I made it to the electronics. I might have ended up with a brand new forty-two inch flat-screen TV and a PS3.

The next time I have writer's block, I believe I'll turn off my computer and curl up with a good book. It's free and I won't have to smile at anybody.

I might even wear my jammies.
.
.

100 Words: Mother Farkle

I'm making my New Year's Resolution list early this year. It's full of the stuff I never got around to in 2011. Lose weight. Be nicer. Write more. Read more. Curse less.
It's that last one I always seem to dismiss first and foremost. The first day back to work usually has me screaming the EFF word not once or twice, but multiple times.
Last year I tried to stick to it by having somebody hold me accountable. I was to pay Bryan five dollars for every profane word I uttered. One hour and fifteen dollars later, I cancelled the deal.

Age-Appropriate Answers

Let me tell you a true story, except for the names; I'm changing those to suit my fancy and to protect the ignorant...er...I mean innocent.

I was twenty years old when I was pregnant with my third child. (go ahead. judge me. I deserve it. I was too young to have even one, let alone three children. later on, when I was twenty-two, I had a fourth child. stupid. stupid. stupid.)
All of my children have the same freeloader for a father (I like to call him Earl). I'm not proud of this fact. I'm just throwing that in because it's sort of crucial to the story I'm telling.

When I was about seven months along with my third child, I was sticking all the way out to here, so there wasn't much hiding it from any of my "tsk tsk"ing neighbors or my "Oh Jeez, again?" coworkers, because pretty much anybody who could see me knew that I was pregnant.

My three young foster brothers, for instance, were aware that I was about to spew forth yet another stinkmonster into the world. Our family easily populates half the Earth. We are amazing breeders. We found something we really know how to do and we just kept on doing it. Some of us are still doing it. We are relentless.

Anyway, one afternoon, when I was preggers with the third, I was at my mom's house, keeping an eye on my three young foster brothers who were 11, 10 and 9 years old at the time. (actually, I should tell you that these foster brothers are actually my biological cousins and that they are natural brothers to one another having two half-siblings on their mother's side, which goes to support my theory about populating half the world.)

Back to the story- I was watching the fosters and taking advantage of the laundry facilities all at the same time. I was in the laundry room, just off the dining room and the oldest boy, uh, Jethro, was sitting at the table having a snack and watching me fold clothes. My mom was at work and expected me to run the household according to her strict design until her return later that evening. Basically, I was to keep the boys from murdering one another or trashing the house. I had a lot of confidence in myself that I could do this.

My two oldest were babies at the time, and so they were having an afternoon nap. The other two fosters, Jasper and Judah were playing in their room. I could hear them "fighting" with swords, but there didn't seem to be any actual bloodshed, so all was well. I continued to fold clothes.

Jethro eyeballed me and my humongous belly as I pulled laundry out of the dryer.

"How'd that baby get in there?" he asked, out of the blue. It threw me just for a moment, but this was not an uncommon question, and I had read all the parenting books. I knew that I was supposed to give age-appropriate answers and never divulge more information than the child actually asks. Short simple answers always worked best. Or at least they had in the past.

"Well, moms and dads make the baby and it grows inside the mom until it's born," I answered. He was eleven. Most eleven-year-olds know this. I felt safe giving this answer.

"But how did it get in there?" he asked again. I gave him the once over and checked the clock on the wall. It was nowhere near time for my mom to come home.

I snapped a towel and folded it twice. "Well, the dad puts the baby in there." I turned away from him toward the washer, as if to signal that the conversation was over. But it wasn't.

"But how does he do it? Where does he put it in?"

My shoulders slumped in defeat as I sighed heavily into the empty well of the washer. I was remembering all the way back to when I was eleven and thinking why doesn't he know this? By the time I was eleven, I knew where babies came from. I had seen dogs and cats and cows and hogs and even chickens going after it. I had witnessed kittens and puppies being born. I had even watched out the kitchen window when the vet came to help our Shetland pony give birth. I knew about the adulterous birds and those fickle bees.

"Well, Jethro, the dad and the mom have to like each other a whole lot, and when they get together to show how much they like each other, they make a baby."

He thought about that for a while, chewing on his snack with great intensity. When he took a second bite, I thought I was in the clear. Yippee.

But no.

"I need to know how that happens," he demanded, as if I'm holding out on him, and this forbidden knowledge will somehow help him become supreme ruler of all things Jethro. "You need to tell me where he puts the baby. How does it get in there?" He forced those last two words out so hard, I thought his teeth would pop out.

I looked at my brother, gnawed on my lip as I thought about it for a second, and then just blurted it out, as if it would be more painless if I just got it out in the open in one swift movement. Like ripping off a bandaid, right? After all the kid was ELEVEN! He should have already known this!

"Jethro, you have to have sex to make a baby." There. I'd said it. There was no taking it back.

You may have realized by now that I am not exactly a good decision maker. It doesn't matter how thoroughly or how briefly I think a thing through, I will inevitably arrive at the completely wrong decision, no matter what. As always, I had made the wrong decision in telling my young brother how it is that babies are made.

His eyes...so big with disbelief...and the look on his face as he sorted it out in his head...ugh. He jumped up from his chair, straight as a board with the shock, the horror of this knowledge. My knees gave out for a second when I realized there was no fixing this. What was done was done. Can't take it back.

Jethro shot around the corner to the bedroom where his brothers, his younger brothers were playing and I heard a muffled, desperate purging of words spill from Jethro's mouth and into Jasper and Judah's ears. A brief moment of silence overtook the house. I imagined this was the moment of clarity that some people have when everything comes together to form a perfect picture in their minds. I didn't want to think what my little brothers were picturing just then. In unison, all three boys began to moan with denial. They made their way back into the kitchen to confront me about my carnal sins.

Tragically, there was no bottomless pit handy into which I could throw myself.

"Is it true? Is it true?" Jasper asked, desperate for me to deny these accusations. "Do you have to have sex to make a baby?"

There I stood before the judge and jury made up of my three poor, sheltered brothers who didn't even know enough of the world to understand about something as simple and primal as sex. In the back of my mind, I was trying to form a defense for my mother for when she came home and realized I'd corrupted her precious children for life. If I could word it just right, I was pretty sure I could turn it around and make it seem like her fault.

"Yes, you have to have sex to make a baby," I told the boys. No sense in changing the story now. The damage was done. Their eyes widened and the "Nu-uh"s and the "No WAY"s overpowered the room. I could barely hear myself whimper with self-loathing. Judah's moment of clarity arrived just then. I could almost see the thoughts form in his head.

"That means you had sex!" he yelled, pointing his finger right at my swollen tummy! I am sure I turned bright red.

"EEEEWWWW!" Jethro moaned, "with EARL!!!"

"THREE TIMES!" Jasper realized, holding his first three fingers up to make sure that everybody in the room knew me for the shameful fornicator I was.

"Yup," I admitted and turned back to the laundry. I didn't want to talk about it further, but you can bet I heard about it later from my mom.

I don't know why she was so upset. Nobody murdered anybody else, and the house looked really nice when she got home.

111 Words. 172 Stories

Yesterday, as I was diligently searching through the follicles on my head, I thought of one hundred seventy two macabre stories to tell you about vanity and my long term love affair with the Guardian of the Fountain of Youth.
Coincidentally, I plucked exactly one hundred seventy two gray hairs from my scalp, and there went the ideas, into the trash, along with my fantasies of an eternally wrinkle free appearance.
(Damn those grandkids.)
All hope is not lost, however, as I was carded at the Walmart on I-27 and Georgia for a Sharpie.
Apparently, you have to be at least eighteen before you can be trusted not to sniff them.