The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Friday, March 27, 2009
So Full of Crap
And this is just my desk. A 4” x 3 ½” foot space.
Now take this list of crap, times the size of everything by twenty, add wheels or dust or broken musical bits to most of them and – voila! – that’s my basement. Crammed. Full. Stuffed with crap.
So here my house is, overwhelmed by crap and I’m feeling boxed in, swarmed, like I have thousands of mini, black ants crawling all over my body and I can’t – get – them – off!!!!
And then I stop.
And remember.
As a child of the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, my indoctrinated guilt kicks in. I remember the sad tales our parents would tell of the kids in Ethiopia who didn’t have enough food on their plates followed by the frightening pictures of tiny, stick bodies with bloated bellies, giant brown eyes staring up at you in desperation.
“Mommy, why are their bellies so big?” we would ask. “Because they’re filled with air, honey,” would come the reply.
Air?????
This was usually followed by an, “And how lucky you are to have this broc-turk-cheese-brussel sprout stew on your plate! Eat every – single – drop!” And boy we were lucky to have that broc-turk-cheese-brussel sprout stew on our plate!
And that’s the ambivalence I have about the crap in my house. I am completely, totally, and absolutely very, very lucky to have every single yellow plastic paperclip that continually gets stepped on in the laundry room by the basement door, but I am, at the same time, completely overwhelmed and disgusted by it all. I am full already, Mom!!!
Our consumerism disgusts me. And we just can’t stop it. And it’s getting worse as the kids get older. I am full. My house is full.
I am overwhelmed by crap and I just can’t stop eating.
By Annie B. Yearout
Labels: Annie B. Yearout, appreciation, cleaning, colorful foods, consumerism, crap, Ethiopia, laundry room, mess
Stumble This Post
Friday, February 08, 2008
Me and My Flat-Screen TV
They stagger under the weight, two young, strapping men and my husband. Their faces are red, and their hands clench at the prized wooden box as they lift it out of the semi-truck blocking all traffic in front of our house. The box is as big as an elephant, an abominable snowman I think as I watch from our front porch.
In the front yard, they open the box with crowbars, prying off the protective, hard exterior, allowing the high-tech, delicate insides to see sunlight for the first time since Japan.
The once cloudy sky clears and a golden ray of sun beams down on us. I hear the chorus of “Halleluiah!!!!! Halleluiah, Halleluiah!!” Angels sing. My husband’s face is rapt, in awe, in love – here it is, finally – our giant, flat-screen HDTV.
I walk back into the house and peek over at the two-by-two black box in the corner. Our “old” TV now, so bulky, so 1990s with its square shape and fuzzy picture. Poor old guy, I think. Let’s spare him the misery of meeting his replacement. His younger cousin. His super cousin. His svelte, sleek, in-your-face cousin.
I throw a towel over the old TV. Don’t look.
My husband floats in the front door. “Are we ready to bring her in?!” All five feet wide and four feet high of her. Holy guac! A TV on steroids, I think, in awe of her movie-screen lines.
Never in seven hundred bazillion years would I have allowed my husband to buy such a thing. He’d been begging. I’d been resisting. “What’s wrong with our sweet, little dinosaur?” I’d glance towards the black box in the corner. Grumbling, my husband would mutter about hi-def, keeping up with technology, and living with Wilma Flintstone.
And then the phone call came in. He’d won her in an office raffle. An office raffle??? I demanded to see credit card receipts, proof, bank statements that no giant sum of money had mysteriously gone missing.
Could it be true??? And why do I resist? Am I like Grandpa with the fax machine or the clichéd Great Aunt Edna curmudgeoning on and on about how easy young whippersnappers lives are today with things like the wheel, toilets and refrigerators… “In my day we dragged ice up from the lake, backwards, blindfolded, and hopping on one foot!!!”
Ashamed of my quiet disgust for the new toy and my similarity to Great Aunt Edna, I realize my intense emotions come from wanting to protect my kids from this centerpiece of technological couch-potatodom. This alluring magical screen has public health officials’ heads spinning as family dinners and backyard games with the neighbors’ kids after school become obsolete and her siren calls beckon us to become blobs. As a mom, I am a protector of all things evil, of monsters in our midst. Isn’t this an irresistible monster in disguise that we’ve invited into our home?
So here she joins us today. This mammoth flat-screened creature from my deepest lagoon. We will enjoy her in moderation despite her powerful call to watch her 24/7. I will teach my children to resist her sexy ways. We will survive as a family unit and not let the machine take us over.
And, as for my husband, he can now watch every single dewy drop of sweat cascade down Jeter’s brow as if he were in the dugout himself. I’ve already lost him to the dark side, and he’s loving every minute.
By Annie B. Yearout Stumble This Post
In the front yard, they open the box with crowbars, prying off the protective, hard exterior, allowing the high-tech, delicate insides to see sunlight for the first time since Japan.
The once cloudy sky clears and a golden ray of sun beams down on us. I hear the chorus of “Halleluiah!!!!! Halleluiah, Halleluiah!!” Angels sing. My husband’s face is rapt, in awe, in love – here it is, finally – our giant, flat-screen HDTV.
I walk back into the house and peek over at the two-by-two black box in the corner. Our “old” TV now, so bulky, so 1990s with its square shape and fuzzy picture. Poor old guy, I think. Let’s spare him the misery of meeting his replacement. His younger cousin. His super cousin. His svelte, sleek, in-your-face cousin.
I throw a towel over the old TV. Don’t look.
My husband floats in the front door. “Are we ready to bring her in?!” All five feet wide and four feet high of her. Holy guac! A TV on steroids, I think, in awe of her movie-screen lines.
Never in seven hundred bazillion years would I have allowed my husband to buy such a thing. He’d been begging. I’d been resisting. “What’s wrong with our sweet, little dinosaur?” I’d glance towards the black box in the corner. Grumbling, my husband would mutter about hi-def, keeping up with technology, and living with Wilma Flintstone.
And then the phone call came in. He’d won her in an office raffle. An office raffle??? I demanded to see credit card receipts, proof, bank statements that no giant sum of money had mysteriously gone missing.
Could it be true??? And why do I resist? Am I like Grandpa with the fax machine or the clichéd Great Aunt Edna curmudgeoning on and on about how easy young whippersnappers lives are today with things like the wheel, toilets and refrigerators… “In my day we dragged ice up from the lake, backwards, blindfolded, and hopping on one foot!!!”
Ashamed of my quiet disgust for the new toy and my similarity to Great Aunt Edna, I realize my intense emotions come from wanting to protect my kids from this centerpiece of technological couch-potatodom. This alluring magical screen has public health officials’ heads spinning as family dinners and backyard games with the neighbors’ kids after school become obsolete and her siren calls beckon us to become blobs. As a mom, I am a protector of all things evil, of monsters in our midst. Isn’t this an irresistible monster in disguise that we’ve invited into our home?
So here she joins us today. This mammoth flat-screened creature from my deepest lagoon. We will enjoy her in moderation despite her powerful call to watch her 24/7. I will teach my children to resist her sexy ways. We will survive as a family unit and not let the machine take us over.
And, as for my husband, he can now watch every single dewy drop of sweat cascade down Jeter’s brow as if he were in the dugout himself. I’ve already lost him to the dark side, and he’s loving every minute.
By Annie B. Yearout
Labels: Annie B. Yearout
Stumble This Post
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Wanted: Playmate for My Husband
Wanted: Married weary female mother of three seeks playmate for my late-30s-year old husband. Must be fun loving, not tired all the time, peppy, happy, consistently cheery, and able to have dinner ready at the end of the day.
Must not be blond, under 26 y/old, or a former capital “P” Playmate. Absolutely no “secretaries” or “assistants” or “flight attendants” need apply.
Must like late, weekday nights out at Bimbos, the Warfield and the Fillmore. Must know what the Boom-Boom Room is and how to get there. Must dig all kinds of music, have a working knowledge of the ‘80s greatest hits, and be able to karaoke Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” in its entirety with a pool cue. Any air-guitar experience a bonus!
Must, must be able to stay out until 2 a.m. on a Wednesday and wake up by 7 a.m. on a Thursday to help with the kids. No hangovers allowed.
Sports knowledge necessary – a good candidate will have memorized roster and ERAs of NY Yankees and SF Giants, field positions of Raiders and Patriots, and like to watch and discuss them for hours while scratching your inner thigh. Must like beer, too, and have extensive tailgating experience. TiVo skills are key, but manhandling the remote is not preferred.
Should adore picking up his extra socks, boxers and newspapers from the bathroom floor. Should abhor long, sentimental conversations and be okay with closing the refrigerator door.
Should not be a wife. Should not have children. Should be completely unencumbered by anything more demanding than a fern or a wart. Someone living in hotel rooms and out of honor an bar is an attractive candidate, especially if there is free HBO or Toblerone involved.
Should have the energy of a person on a Starbucks Triple Espresso w/ a Red Bull chaser. Should know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.
No “skinny jeaned” or “halter toped” persons need apply. Rather, pimply, saggy, wrinkly people preferred.
If you are this person, please call immediately -- concert tonight at 10 p.m.
By Annie B. Yearout Stumble This Post
Must not be blond, under 26 y/old, or a former capital “P” Playmate. Absolutely no “secretaries” or “assistants” or “flight attendants” need apply.
Must like late, weekday nights out at Bimbos, the Warfield and the Fillmore. Must know what the Boom-Boom Room is and how to get there. Must dig all kinds of music, have a working knowledge of the ‘80s greatest hits, and be able to karaoke Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” in its entirety with a pool cue. Any air-guitar experience a bonus!
Must, must be able to stay out until 2 a.m. on a Wednesday and wake up by 7 a.m. on a Thursday to help with the kids. No hangovers allowed.
Sports knowledge necessary – a good candidate will have memorized roster and ERAs of NY Yankees and SF Giants, field positions of Raiders and Patriots, and like to watch and discuss them for hours while scratching your inner thigh. Must like beer, too, and have extensive tailgating experience. TiVo skills are key, but manhandling the remote is not preferred.
Should adore picking up his extra socks, boxers and newspapers from the bathroom floor. Should abhor long, sentimental conversations and be okay with closing the refrigerator door.
Should not be a wife. Should not have children. Should be completely unencumbered by anything more demanding than a fern or a wart. Someone living in hotel rooms and out of honor an bar is an attractive candidate, especially if there is free HBO or Toblerone involved.
Should have the energy of a person on a Starbucks Triple Espresso w/ a Red Bull chaser. Should know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.
No “skinny jeaned” or “halter toped” persons need apply. Rather, pimply, saggy, wrinkly people preferred.
If you are this person, please call immediately -- concert tonight at 10 p.m.
By Annie B. Yearout
Labels: Annie B. Yearout
Stumble This Post
Sunday, July 22, 2007
The Waterhole
It’s hot. 103 degrees and my dog, Ansel, won’t move anymore. Not even to join me today for my daily escape to the nearby waterhole on the South Fork of the Merced while my kiddos nap.
We’re in Yosemite at the family cabin that great-grandpa Floyd Alvin built in the 1950s. The original olive green décor inside has come in-and-out of fashion three times since, I think. I can’t keep up.
It’s our first visit ever for a full week, and by day two, we’re all covered, completely, with the fine, soft dirt that coats the ground of the High Sierras. Our Yosemite tan, I tease. Cancer free and it washes off with an easy scrub.
At the waterhole, it’s quiet. An unusual thing in this kind of heat. Siesta time for everyone, I think. Lucky me.
There’s a monolith of granite that reclines into the hole. The rock is starting to bake, warm in the sun – just coming out from the shadows of the redwoods on the bank. That’s my rock, I drool as I see it just a few hops away.
My left clog slips off my foot as I scramble up the slipery, four-foot cliff. Into the mini boulder field below it goes. Who cares? I’m nearing the top. One shoe on, one shoe off. Made it!
Shirt off, shorts flung, I leap from my rock into the waterhole. The water is like butter.
Buttah -- in my hair, in my ears, in every pore of my body, mind, and soul. I feel the Sierra minerals soaking into my cells, feeding me. Mother Nature’s spa.
The brown, native trout that had been quietly munching on bug treats before my arrival scattered, rolling their fish eyes at the intrusion. Another crazy ape disturbing their lunch. Another hidey hole to wait this one out. Looks like this is going to be a long one, guys.
I float on my back and look at my toes poking out, stretching to the sky. My Yosemite tan now in streaks around my toenails. Dirty. Happy.
Five more days, I think, and then duck down, deep into the cold water to tickle the fins of those fishies.
Five more days.
By Annie B. Yearout Stumble This Post
We’re in Yosemite at the family cabin that great-grandpa Floyd Alvin built in the 1950s. The original olive green décor inside has come in-and-out of fashion three times since, I think. I can’t keep up.
It’s our first visit ever for a full week, and by day two, we’re all covered, completely, with the fine, soft dirt that coats the ground of the High Sierras. Our Yosemite tan, I tease. Cancer free and it washes off with an easy scrub.
At the waterhole, it’s quiet. An unusual thing in this kind of heat. Siesta time for everyone, I think. Lucky me.
There’s a monolith of granite that reclines into the hole. The rock is starting to bake, warm in the sun – just coming out from the shadows of the redwoods on the bank. That’s my rock, I drool as I see it just a few hops away.
My left clog slips off my foot as I scramble up the slipery, four-foot cliff. Into the mini boulder field below it goes. Who cares? I’m nearing the top. One shoe on, one shoe off. Made it!
Shirt off, shorts flung, I leap from my rock into the waterhole. The water is like butter.
Buttah -- in my hair, in my ears, in every pore of my body, mind, and soul. I feel the Sierra minerals soaking into my cells, feeding me. Mother Nature’s spa.
The brown, native trout that had been quietly munching on bug treats before my arrival scattered, rolling their fish eyes at the intrusion. Another crazy ape disturbing their lunch. Another hidey hole to wait this one out. Looks like this is going to be a long one, guys.
I float on my back and look at my toes poking out, stretching to the sky. My Yosemite tan now in streaks around my toenails. Dirty. Happy.
Five more days, I think, and then duck down, deep into the cold water to tickle the fins of those fishies.
Five more days.
By Annie B. Yearout
Labels: Annie B. Yearout
Stumble This Post
