Please Excuse My Time In Use

Please excuse my lack of calls. I think of you often and I miss you as well.
Please excuse my unanswered text. The response was lost but, not the words left
still ringing in my head as I cash out a guest with a wom-wom, “Thank you” I think left my lips that also left you to feel dismissed. I’m sorry. Please excuse my absence at the party. I wanted to be there but again, priorities. Not saying you’re not a priority. My life in double negatives, I begin to feel sorry. My practice in meditation diminished. Longing for a future that we give a cheeky kiss, sit down over coffee or tea or a beer and hopefully my mind won’t start wandering about things I haven’t held dear or who else is left I’ve shunned to sit down with over coffee. I’m sorry. Please excuse my self absorbed state where I cancelled our week-in-advanced date. I wanted breadsticks while we waited just absorbing. Please excuse the next week that comes. Or the next month, four packs of fresh breath gum I’ve been giving to strangers touring. Please excuse me of the mess. Of my house or of my dress. I turned the iron on but it went again unused just this morning. My hair was giving me a day and two little boys that need me most, well… I am first, their host and for that I’m not sorry.

The problem with me is my list of many things…to do and things dead before I’m dead to get ahead. Please excuse me while my time is taken. I’m sorry.

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.