Using the screen as a shield and the keyboard as a dagger, written words have the power to pierce the flesh and bleed a person dry. They can also lift spirits and elicit joy, elation, and a warm sense of home. But some words, words written with the bitter spit of bile, they can cut the flesh and tear at the heart, scratch at the mind, make a nest and live there, itching away at the surrounding gray matter, never letting a person forget.
She sobbed uncontrollably, her entire body racked with grief. Her sixteen year old daughter tried to comfort her by rubbing her back and whispering in her ear. I can’t even imagine how you begin to comfort someone who has just lost her soul for no good reason.
Tearing my eyes away from the sight so as to quell my own sadness, I looked across the room. The funeral had just begun, the casket lovingly carried down the aisle by his closest friends, and the family had been seated. As I wiped the tears off my wet cheeks, I had to look again. I’m not sure why I felt the urge to watch the mother and daughter like that.
I’m pretty good at a lot of things, none of which I can think of right now. But I’m almost sure that a person doesn’t get to be 30 and three quarters without learning some skills and practicing them until they’re mastered. Like, I’m sure there’s something I can do that some people can’t, or some type of party trick that would impress a crowd, or maybe I’m the best at doing one thing even if it’s menial and insignificant. There’s got to be something.
So I was thinking about writing a blog post because HOLY CRAP I HAVE A BLOG. Yes, in fact, I do have a blog. A blog that I have been actively neglecting since I wrote a two sentence post on one of my daughter’s poop habits. Awesome.
The evil side of me, which occasionally consumes more than it’s fair share, hopes that some of you have popped in here many times, hoping to be entertained and enlightened and touched by the words of angels like you normally are when you visit this place, only to read and re-read and re-read again that she likes privacy while pooping.
In my dream, we’re old. Much older than we are right now. Your hair is much greyer, mine still the same. We both have more wrinkles and laugh lines and frown lines. The whites of our eyes have dulled, our bones and muscles ache.
The girls are grown and gone and living lives of their own. They have families, they have homes, they have careers. They are strong women and although we have no need to worry about them, we still do. Parents will always worry about their children. But they’re happy, that we don’t question. They’re happy because we raised them with unending, unconditional love. We taught them to be what they want, who they want. To love who they want. To respect and to accept nothing less than respect in return. To be kind and thoughtful and hardworking. We taught them to love, by loving them. They’re ok. We did right by them.
At MamaPop, I made you hungry by talking about movies with lots of delicious looking food in them.
I told you about three, THREE, remakes/reworkings of Snow White.
And, as usual, I recapped Jersey Shore. Don’t judge me as a person just because I love to hate that show. We all have our vices, right?
Do you know what a person shouldn’t do while they’re trying to lose those couple or ten pounds gained over the holidays? Now just you shut up about how it’s February and that’s a full month since the holidays and a full month is plenty of time two lose a couple or ten pounds. You shut up about that and I’ll shut up about how maybe only 5 of the pounds were from the holidays and the other 5 came after. We’ll both shut up and there will be no need for fisticuffs, m’kay? M’KAY.
What was I doing? Oh, right. The exact opposite thing I should have been doing, which is Googling “ugly bread”. Because when you Google “ugly bread”, you do not get pictures of ugly looking bread. Google failed me there. Instead, you get pictures of delicious looking bread that I want to put in my face. Bread filled with chocolate chips and smothered in icing and dusted with powdered sugar and smeared with cinnamon and oh my. There’s nothing ugly about any of that.
It’s raining outside. The kind of rain that nearly penetrates your skin. It’s coming down in sheets. Violent, battering, angry sheets. Everything is so saturated in dampness, I can feel it in my bones. Inside the car, the air is moist and cool. It feels the same on the inside as it does on the outside, but much less violent.
She’s in here with me. It’s just her and I. Her head bounces around in slow motion, like a balloon on a string whose helium has begun to leak. It’s finding a position to settle on; one that takes the least effort to maintain. Her head comes to rest in a way that will leave her with a crick when she wakes up. But for now, it is perfect.
My father does not want a 300 word essay written with $5 schmoopy words on love and appreciation in a card covered with flowers and silhouettes of seagulls and ribbons and pearls. That is a recycled Mother’s Day card. Nice try.
My father does not want an LOLCat with 3D googly eyes. In fact, no one over the age of 3 wants an LOLCat with 3D googly eyes on their card.
My father does not want an oversized certificate proclaiming him to be The World’s Greatest Father. Where would he put it? Not at his office; that’s bragging.
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