Well, I am sure that I have neglected my blog again. Fortunately I didn’t see any decrease in visitors or traffic… or an increase… or any visitors or traffic. Drat.
Here are the highlights of this week:
Monday: Family night with Katie and the kiddos. Mediocre episode of Castle.
Tuesday: Eli is taking his first steps like a champ. Finished my ‘Mary Sue’ article for Fiction Vortex. I made Katie get out of bed to watch another ‘Ew!’ skit on Fallon.
Today at work someone brought donuts. Lots of donuts. I give thanks for donuts.
When I was judged for eating a second donut, and yes I was judged and judged by many, I simply stated that I was practicing for Thanksgiving.
It has painfully come to my attention that the metabolism and eating capabilities of my youth are fond memories to think of during bouts of heartburn and indigestion. With that fun little revelation, I know that I can’t casually go into Thanksgiving anymore. I have to prepare, I have to do the appropriate gastrointestinal stretches, I have to exercise, I have to practice.
So, during the next two days I will eat yogurt. What? Did you think I meant grotesque amounts of eating? Nope. I have to prep my ever-grumpy tummy for tryptophan and carbs.
More than anything, I am looking forward to time with family. Time to dominate some boardgames, time for naps, time to appreciate not shopping on Thanksgiving, time to be happy about not being at work and not listening to customers complain about having to spend time with loved ones. I take this time off for a reason.
So what do donuts have to do with Thanksgiving? I don’t know. I just like donuts.
Every once in a while I am overcome (dramatic word, I know) by a mood. That mood is best described as somber or morose or more than serious. I have learned that when this mood hits I should expect a musing. I get the sudden strong urge to write and then something happens and after an indeterminate time I am left with something that I didn’t have before. That is what I call a ‘musing.’
Tonight it hit in the form of poetry. I haven’t written poetry of my own volition for over a decade, so this was odd. I call this one “The Other”
A table has two sides. One for me. One for the other. That is what tells me, me—that is what tells me that there is an other. The other is there somewhere and hasn’t found the way to the other’s side of the table. Hasn’t been able to face me. I don’t even know if the other wants to face me. I don’t even know that the other knows there is, me, the other to the other. But I know there is an other. The table has two sides. I wait at one, and then there is the other.
I hope next time that the musing produces a full length novel. Poetry has always been so weird to me.
Bedtime for my three-year old has been a struggle lately. He sees his room as a prison and himself as wrongly oppressed prisoner that screams out at the authorities, and I quote, “I have to get out, let me out, you can’t do this to me, let me out, I hate you, I hate you!” My wife and I are quite happy that our doors are cheap because that kid is going to break his one of these nights. But that isn’t the focus of my post today.