Saturday MornIng

I passed out at ten O’Clock last night. I woke up well rested in a gloomy living room so quiet I heard the furnace tick. 

I didn’t snooze an alarm. I didn’t run for a shower. I didn’t pack a diaper bag or a lunch.  I didnt rush to find someone’s homework (we still have to do). I didn’t change a landslide diaper that sometimes requires a bath while I’m putting on my eyelids. 

I didn’t forget the check for school pictures, the signed permission slip for field trip,the payment for daycare, the carseat for grandma, or a blanket for child…

I didn’t move.

I waited until I was able and not a second sooner, then made a pot of coffee (ten beautiful cups of it). I openned the curtains, loaded the dishwasher, poured a cup of Brita-Joe and added 5lbs of mocha creamer just because it made me happy. 

I sat down at the table, read some articles and listened for the thuds above me (first a jolt, then a leg out of bed, and then two feet pounding across the ceiling). I hear my three year old slam porcelain against porcelain and I laugh at the next 18 years of my life. I hear a baby cry and a dad get out of bed. 

I just sit here waiting like Santa’s bringing me presents on Christmas. I have a Saturday morning.

Flabby Arms Fly

I’d of loved myself so much sooner to see the artistic works of Medieval, Ancient rulers – an artists replication of curve before MTV. Real Queens, not a photoshopped hack job of Beyonce.

Today, the shit has hit the fan on bodily expectations for women.  Instagram is populated with obvious cropped waist-lines and butt implants and gym junkies and anti aging fruit from the center of the earth…. I’m not amused, and I do not find it admirable.

You can’t truly walk a life in vain, worried about the possibility of veins, can you?

I find it novel, a woman with lines, a life’s story behind each indentation.  A tired mom with a belly blossomed, carrying her weight full term.  A laboring bartender works long into the morning with eyes that sing a sad song – drives her own car home to a grade A daughter – can afford no make up to put on.  A matriarch of ten grows a garden – her hands stiff, scarred and arthritic – makes some heaven out of soup bowls -and keeps a fat family happily fed.

Real women who fight their days without fear – wave their flabby arms like wings – never letting their laugh lines miss the chance to crease – now that’s admirable.

Stay At Home Mom

Mandarin Oranges break into beads that thread through the carpet I walk on.  An old grape tomato, the cat’s new toy splatters – on the hall wall I wander down, for more milk – that will spit itself onto the suede couch I sit my peanut butter jelly ass on.  Water in the sink, on the floor, hugs the rug and runs into the side of the tub, the toilet I’m in need of.  A toy car beneath the sheets of my bed – I yearn for an active dream – drives me to a days blacked out end.  Awakened by whine for more games, more play – is the radio station that cries for my dancing.  A coffee cup already cold, spoiled creamer – gets the dishes done, the garbage outdoors, and the breakfast made from a toaster.  No arpon with flowers or heels that click, just my hair in a knot, some old stained socks decorated in crumbs and butter.  Can’t wait to have kids, be a stay at home mom, and go mad walking through a circular door of unclean paths in need of maiding.

Business Man, A Smell Not Suiting

They call him Sly, and he’s slick like gasoline.  Buzzin through a late crowd, he’s on a pick-up for a buck before sleep.  A few kids call on him but, not anything kind.  “He called me a Punk!”, was the last grunt I heard before he threatened to lose his shit on those snot-nosed brats.  College kids post kegger, insurance on Daddy’s buck, saying things about, “Get a job.” Like they know what brought him here.

He’s the best peddler on the block.  At least, he’s the least threatening of the bunch, in our village of the Queen City, where thick rimmed glasses pay for beer on a 2 for 1 Tuesday night budget.  He’s the last voice you hear before turning for bed, a raspy reminder not a thing’s been shifted under Apollo.  A coughing call to the last flannel shirt walking out of final rounds, “Two dollars for the bus.” is as soothing as a goodnight kiss to a mother’s youngest, spoiled pisset, for hazy-eyed locals in route.

His two and a half mile Castle stretches with bakeries, bars, and crowds that carry drink tips perfectly drunken.  They slip past with a smirk, a feel-good exchange, and leave with a little self-humbling for better sleep.  They don’t even see the other flunked fool with a burden to lose get suckered into another five behind them.

He likes Pink lemonade, if you’ll let him have it for free.  Otherwise, he wants nothing but another buck for the bus, to get to another street.  And if you pass him you’ll see he’s sometimes refreshed, sometimes sober, and sometimes – no, none at all.  But, he still likes Pink lemonade, and if you got one, a Marlboro as well.

One time he told me about his grandmother from his years back when.  She was a bright, strong woman who took up nursing.  Married three men, and outlived them all.  She had a nice house in a better part of the city, when the trees were healthily grown.  She had plenty of children to keep the gene pool steadily flowing, and he remembered her like cake.

Another time, he told me he was a Vampire, before swiftly darting off into the crowd, with nothing more than a phobia for garlic.