Saturday, December 3, 2011

too much haiku

Too much wine. I think
I drink a little too much
Wine sometimes at night.

Monday, November 7, 2011

hall study

I am sitting outside of Liam's karate classroom, where all the parents watch and wait for the lesson to be over. It's not so much a waiting room as a hallway with some chairs and benches and blinding florescent lights. One wall is a long two-way mirror so that we in the hall can watch the class on the other side, and the class can watch itself. Liam was so full of piss and vinegar after school that I insisted we go to the early karate class in hopes of jarring him into another emotional universe. I figure it's our best shot for surviving the rest of the evening. As I watch and wait for my son's glorious transition, I think I'll make a few notes.

A short distance from me there sits a woman wearing a white sweatshirt with appliqué maple leaves over a black turtleneck decorated with little orange pumpkins. She is seasonally festive. She is also seasonally ill. She keeps coughing in a wet duck-call sort of way and her cough drop clicks against her teeth as she moves it around with her tongue. I wish she'd cover her mouth.

Friendly Biology Professor is on the next bench over. She's working on her laptop, as she always does, with her turbulent mass of salt-and-pepper hair in a loose bun, and cat socks and purple Crocs on her feet. I suspect she's a Mormon, but I can't confirm that yet.

To my right the Floor Sitter is sitting on the floor. It's a little unusual for an adult to sit on the floor, but he must be more comfortable that way because he and his t-shirt and sweatpants are lodged in the same spot every week. Maybe he has trouble with his back. Floor Sitter plays games on his smartphone while he's waiting for class to be over. He has the same smartphone case as I do: orange and pink. I wonder why he's ok with pink. Maybe it's not really his phone.

On the farthest bench is a lady I've never seen before. She looks to be in her 70s and she has brought her entire sewing kit with her. She stores her needles and pins in one of those amber-colored pill bottles you get from the pharmacy and she's taking up her grandson's pants while she waits. She just smiled at me. I wonder if she noticed that I'm watching her.

Coughing Lady has finally stopped coughing and is now filing her fingernails. I wish she'd stop doing all of these things, including the sweatshirt.

Floor Sitter is just getting up toddler-style, with his butt in the air and his hands pushing off from the floor. Wow. He's big. He looks around, leans on a folding chair, then sits down again. I wonder what he's looking for.

Blond Karate Lady just walked in. Her son is a brown belt and so is she. She's a manager of the facilities department at some Maryland school district, but she wanted to do something for herself for once, so she signed up for karate a few years ago. Floor Sitter just asked her if she could see his son anywhere in the classroom. She looks through the classroom windows from her chair while he pretends to look from his spot on the floor. Neither of them can see Son. Floor Sitter says "huh" and goes back to playing solitaire on his smartphone. She opens a book.

Man in Black, who is sharing a bench with Sewing Lady, has just tried to point out Floor Sitter's son, who is talking with a teacher down the hall. I can hear Son explaining that he accidentally locked himself in the bathroom stall for a few minutes because the lock was rusty. But Floor Sitter isn't listening to Man in Black, so Man in Black gives up and turns back to his own smartphone.

A little while ago Coughing Lady got up and left with her purse, which really got my hopes up. But now she's back and hard at work again with that damn nail file. A few minutes have passed. At last she's put the nail file back in her purse and let out a big wet cough. Maybe that was the grand finale.

Man in Black is explaining smartphones to Sewing Lady while she hems. He's telling her about Facebook and how he can even be friends with his relatives in Canada. When she responds to him her voice sounds like a little girl's and I turn to look at her again. It doesn't match her face at all.

There are ten minutes left of class. Liam is practicing a new kata. It's really beautiful. Students begin arriving for the late session and heading for the changing rooms. All of us waiting in the hallway have gone quiet. Everyone is tired. Coughing Lady hacks out another wet one and then falls mercifully silent. The kids in the classroom sway back and forth like trees in a storm—grace with lethal intent, if not yet lethal force. They chant the closing creed, bow, and pour out of the classroom into the waiting hall.


Sunday, November 6, 2011

errands

Today I went to the computer store, the pet store, the grocery store, and the drug store. By the time I got to the grocery store I was regretting the cup of tea and two glasses of water I'd consumed before setting out and I just couldn't wait any longer. Through the "Employees Only" swinging doors I went, past the produce crates, up the stairs, and through the break room to "LAdiES." As it turns out, the self-proclaimed Bathroom Bandit had gotten there first and had left behind her a string of platitudes. And because I'm a modern woman with modern technology in my pocket, I took some pictures of her work. Upon returning to the produce section (thoughtful and forever changed) I noticed a display of strawberry glaze that just took my breath away in its resemblance to my aforementioned bag of Shiraz, or maybe something poisonous, so I took a picture of that too. Red things in bags are always interesting, don't you think?




Saturday, November 5, 2011

mall

I went to the mall today. I found myself thinking, "I'm so glad I'm not one of those people who goes to the mall." When I got home I realized that I didn't purchase the correct item on my first trip, so I had to go again. But at least I'm not one of those people.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

housekeeping

Was picking up the house tonight. Another installment in an unending cycle. I'm going to write a book about it someday. I will call it A Million Little Pieces of Crap. Subtitled Nearly All Plastic. In parens (Nearly None Mine).

Though most little pieces in my house seem to be made of plastic, I will devote one chapter to items made of organic material (or at least not obviously made of plastic). In that chapter I will address socks and underwear, which fall under the sub-category Fabric Crap on the Floor. I will also comment on blue toothpaste and semi-evaporated urine in the sub-category Sticky Crap in the Bathroom. Peanut butter, jelly, and matter resting between the garbage bag and bottom of the can will be explored in the sub-category Sticky Crap in the Kitchen. And finally, I will comment on matters pertaining to litter boxes, which, along with birthday party favors, fall under Crap Made of Shit.

Publication date pending.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Near Miss

If you had left work ten minutes earlier
I would have made it to my yoga class on time


You would have walked in the door
At 5:15 instead of 5:25
And sat with our son and his summer fever
While I sought inner peace for 60 minutes
In Community Room 3


If you had gotten home ten minutes earlier
I wouldn’t have had time to work up a lather
Watching for your car to pull up
And we wouldn’t have argued about your lateness
And those damn baseball cards you bought


By 5:50 I would have been breathing
And sweating and shaking
Through Triangle Pose and Side Plank and Warrior One
And dying for Corpse Pose
To put an end to it all


I wouldn’t have admitted defeat at 5:55
And turned my car toward home
Just shy of my destination
Too late for a graceful entrance
And too mad for inner peace anyway


I wouldn’t have walked back in the door at 6:25
And told you I was going for a walk
Alone
And that I’d bring my phone
But don’t call me (unless his fever gets worse)


I wouldn’t have crossed the street
And ducked into the woods
Where no one could see me
Except whatever it was with the long black tail
That slipped into the undergrowth


If you had gotten home earlier
I wouldn’t have walked past that fallen tree beside the path
Roots exposed as they never intended
Toes in the air, dangling clumps of dirt
Spilling their secrets like an outed lover


I wouldn’t have emerged, swatting flies
Into the field of close-cropped stubble
Dirty blond with dusty breath
Cutting my ankles
And coating my shoes with powdered earth


I wouldn’t have felt, without a moment’s warning
Sun and rain falling equally on my shoulders
A freak cloud in a cloudless sky
Washing and drying in one efficient step
My hair, my cheeks, my legs, my back, my arms


I wouldn’t have sought out the fishing pond
Just past the field
Where I took our son when he was not yet two
Where we threw grass and sticks and leaves and flowers
For hours, to watch them float away


I wouldn’t have remembered carrying him
When it was time to go
Away from the pond, across the field, against his will
Enraged and thrashing (he has his mother’s temper)
Until he fell asleep in the woods, in my arms


If you had been on time
I wouldn’t have recalled his baby hair, shining copper in the sun
Pressed against my cheek
And plastered to his forehead
With the sweat of so much effort


I wouldn’t have smiled
To think of his gorgeous fury
A brand new will
Pitted against the incomprehensible constraints
Of an old world


I wouldn’t have laughed to think of my own indignation
When the fortification of clock and calendar
By now old and trusted friends
Were breached against my will
And I was forced to slip outside and have a look around


I wouldn’t have sat on that bench by the pond
Alone, in the sun and rain
With cuts on my ankles and dust on my shoes
With roots and sticks and fury and its aftermath
On my mind 


If you had left work ten minutes earlier
I wouldn’t have remembered
How to walk away
And I wouldn’t have known when
And why to walk back

Monday, May 9, 2011

O+?

It just occurred to me... Now that people other than myself know about this blog, I really ought to update it more than a few times per year. I'll probably alternate the serious posts with the silly, the short with the long, and meaningful with the meaningless. So keep checking, you never know what you'll find! Like this photo, for instance. How many of you good people identified it as a half-used bag of O+ blood? I'm sorry, but the correct answer is Shiraz.

I'm both proud and ashamed to say I've recently begun buying my nightly wine in boxes, rather than bottles. It's cheaper, it apparently creates less waste, and I love how the wine comes out really fast when you press the button. It even makes bubbles sometimes. And since I'm not terribly picky, I don't mind the limited (yet growing) selection of boxed wines. On the other hand, where there is a box, there is a bag, and a bag is decidedly less elegant than a bottle. This evening I discovered that the box portion of my wine package had somehow become soaked with the liquid portion, so I had to to discard the cardboard and salvage the bag. Gosh, the bag. What can one say? It certainly takes the romance out of red wine. And to quote Forrest, Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.