Snug As Bug

My train leaves every morning at 7:29. Sometimes it is prompt, sometimes it is not. This morning at 7:13, this is where I was......



Luckily, I am a low maintenance hottie. I made my train. Laters.

Dear John Letter

August 28, 2009

Dear Jonathan,

I know you are leaving soon, but I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay safe at home. I don’t want to have the constant worry of you facing car bombs and outdoor markets scattered with the blood and limbs of innocent passers-by. I do worry, when you’re gone, we all do. Can’t help it I guess. I worry for your beautiful wife and kids and hope they are safe; can they cope with you being gone? I see horrible stories on CNN about military families and I know that it must be one of the hardest jobs in the world.
I’m just your big sister and this is your life now, but if I could get on your bus, I would. And I would beat them all up so you didn’t have to. Just like in the old days.
Before you go, I want to tell you that I am proud of you and what you have accomplished. You have faced a lot of negative things and though the way wasn’t always clear, you looked until you found the right road, then you traveled down it. Learning from mistakes is hard for us, but you have done it and done it well. To me, that is the true mark of a man. You and Areli have made a beautiful family and I know that the perseverance that you both have shown will pay off big. How do I know? Trust me, I’m your big sis and I know everything.
I love the relationship you have with God. No wonder that the ancients loved to sing the songs of Zion. What freedom there is in simply lifting up your voice in song to the Creator. And with you, I mean lifting….. as in really loud. But we all love it. Don’t ever stop. Except, maybe if you are singing in my ear. Then you could stop. But only til I move down a few seats. Then sing, sing as loud as you can! Now, more than ever in my life, I know that the God of peace is also the God standing in the fire and He is with you wherever you are.
All my rambling is mostly to say that I love you. And if you are ever in trouble promise me that you will run Forrest, run……

Much Love,

Jacinta

Numbers 6:24-26 The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the LORD turn his face toward you and give you peace.

A Poem

A good one for poetry Thursday. I hope you enjoy!

Welcome Morning
Anne Sexton

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

Summer Lists

It's almost time for back to school, and as usual, the Mullins offspring have yet to finish their summer reading lists. It is my opinion, that teachers simply devise reading lists to torment parents in retaliation for having to put up with their kids everyday. But my opinion is neither here nor there, and the reading lists must be done.
We have made trips to three libraries to locate the required books and once the treasured tome is finally located, it is quickly pronounced "boring."
I agree that reading because you "have to" takes out a great deal of the pleasure, and I wonder who picks out the lists, because the Adolf Hitler biography made ours. Of course, it was on the top of the list for the boys to find at the library. They were out of luck though. Evidently, his bio was the hot tamale for middle school readers at all the libraries. Not a copy to be found.
The boys rolled their eyes when I explained that the early bird/reader gets the Hitler book. Maybe next year they'll start sooner. Laters.

Public Confession Of Faith

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see.

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall.......

I had barely shut the car door when I heard the distinct snap of the locks pop shut. Sher and I got ice cream at Mr. Frosty's while Mom waited in the car. I also wait in the car a lot while K hops out and does the ice cream getting. I also lock the car as soon as K leaves so that I am not carried away and molested by brigands. Back at the car, I realize that it is annoying to wait for the doors to be unlocked while you are juggling two drippy ice cream cones. I didn't think much about the similarities.
At home, Mom scrapes the better portion of her ice cream into the sink, leveling it down to just the cone. "I only like the cone," she says. I always order my ice cream filled only to the top of the cone, and I have been known to scrape the excess into the sink if the ice cream is overly full. I feel distinctly uncomfortable.
We also share a certain savoire faire, that I like to call the, "I'm Hot Gene," which means that you are never embarrassed by a lack of personal grooming.
Working in the garden all day, dirty and sweaty? I'm hot; so I will go to the grocery store just like I am. Hair uncombed? It doesn't matter. I'm hot; so deal with me and my dubious grooming. We like to show the world who we really are.
I become even more worried about these crazy similarities as we go out on a quick Wal-Mart run- she with a large spot on her shirt and me in a pair of reindeer boxers that K got for Christmas. But it doesn't matter, cause we're hot.
There is certainly much to be jealous of when I contrast myself to my mother, her enviably skinny thighs for one thing, her ability to remember the birthday of everyone we know, and her spot-on decorating sense, but no one wants to admit they are turning into their mother. But, I think now, that the similarities are too many to deny, so I am just hoping all her good stuff rubs off on me. Laters.

Poem 4 Thursday

Some Shakespeare for poetry Thursday:


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

My Mistress eyes
Sonnet 130
William Shakespeare

I'm A Logger

In addition to snakes, (any kind) spiders, (fuzzy and those with long legs) and electric eels, I have a phobia about trees falling on our house. Long ago, I read two different newspaper articles about trees falling on unsuspecting home-dwellers whilst they were tucked snugly in their beds. Since then, it has been added to the list of crazy fears that have never come true, but when we move to a new house, I always do a mental eyeball of how close the trees are to the windows to see if it would be an instant death sentence if it fell. The enormous tree in our new front yard is definitely the tree of the apocalypse. No survivors.
Last night we had a huge thunderstorm complete with spectacularly bright flashes of lightning. My first thought was the stability of the tree if it were hit by a random strike, my second thought, as I was already in bed, was how comfortable I was. I prayed that none of us died by falling trees. Then I went to sleep….and lived to tell about it. Laters.

The parents are in town. Mom is working on the house and dad is watching lots of ESPN. I am taking dad to Crumbs tonight. I think he will like it. Tomorrow, he goes to the Mets game with K and the boys. I asked mom if she wanted to go into the City on Friday. In true form she replied, “I think I’ve already seen all of the City that I need to see.” That is my mom- she is not easily impressed. Dad does want to experience the thrill of the train ride, so I think we’ll do the cheap trip in: train, Central Park and dinner in Chinatown. I will be sure to report all the happenings. Laters.

Cruising In My Ragtop

On Saturday, K and I were out for coffee and a drive to scope out tag-sales. All of these things might sound fun to you, but then, I would bet that you have never been inside a closed car with K at the wheel. This is how Jesus and I meet on a daily basis- I pray, fervently pray that I will make it to my next stop.
Imagine if you will, a movie from years gone by, with a stud like Cary Grant at the wheel, wearing a sharp driving coat, goggles and a scarf trailing in the breeze of the exhaust. The car passes through an idealistic, pastoral scene that usually involves perfectly manicured pedestrians, cows, and roadside diners.
That is not, how we ride. We bump merrily over curbs, the wrong way down one way streets, make sudden lane changes, fail to yield, and hardly ever signal. It is nothing for us for swerve across four lanes of traffic to make our exit. K drives fast when he should drive slowly, slow when he should drive fast and he garners more honks and bird flipping that any human on the planet. Why, just the other day, we got honked at so much I actually heard the opening bars to the Mannheim Steam Roller Christmas Extravaganza and I felt all sentimental for snow in August.
But when all is said and done, as K likes to point out, “have I ever got you in a wreck?” The answer is, no but I sure have been scared. A LOT. Laters.

Koctopus

Last night, I was attacked by the Koctopus. This is indeed a fearsome creature and it is most often seen between the hours of: OMG, I just got into the best sleep of my life and 4 am. The Koctopus has disheveled hair, crazy eyes, a slight case of morning breath and never remembers the attack in the morning. The nocturnal Koctopus detests sleeping on their side of the bed and must constantly have a body part, even just a pinkie toe, firmly touching the other occupant.
The normal assault mode of the Koctopus is to lurk about until their prey is completely comatose in la-la land and then sneak up from behind for the strangle attack. Once you have been engulfed in the arms of the Koctopus- don’t think for a minute that you can escape. Oh no, you are doomed to lie crushed and broken as its constrictor-like coils engulf you, cutting off breath and circulation until you die. I once heard tale of a girl who escaped its wiry grasp by pleading, “I have to go to the bathroom,” but that was long ago and I have no way to verify that information.
As for me, I have found that oftentimes a sharp elbow to the ribs does much to discourage the Koctopus, much like the sage advice about punching a shark in the nose, but it does tend to leave the Koctopus disoriented and disgruntled, so is not always worth the risk.
I am happy to say that I survived the attack by giving the Koctopus the magic “stink eye” and have escaped with only minor cuts and bruises and a slight case of drowsy. Laters.

Angst-y Poem

Here is a sort of angry poem for poetry Thursday, but I like it. I know I am ragin' . Laters.

 

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Some Sweet Stuff

I am posting my Aunt Martha's Candy Bar cake for your tasting pleasure. She is a superb cook and a really fine woman. I have eaten many a delish meal made by her two sweet hands.

Please note: this cake is so good you just want to die….. I mean it. Laters

 
For the cake, we use the recipe on the back of the Hershey's cocoa can - - The Perfectly Chocolate Cake. The icing recipe is as follows:

8 oz. cream cheese, softened to room temp
1 cup of confectioner's sugar
1/2 cup of granulated sugar
12 oz. whipped topping 6 Hershey chocolate candy bars, coarsely chopped
 
With electric mixer, beat cream cheese and sugars together until smooth. With a spatula or large spoon, gently fold in whipped topping until well blended. Then fold in chocolate bars. Spread between cake layers and finish icing sides and top. ENJOY!!!

The Pictures

My Supreme Hotness

This morning, I viewed some pretty amazing pictures taken by my lovely, hot, talented, and delish sister-in-law, Areli. She, like most folks in this century, knows how to use photo shop. (I am not one of the most) I click onto my pirated version and draw a few scribbled lines, erase my eyes in attempt to remove red-eye; I then give up and post my pics as is, in their sad, unedited state.
I loved her pictures of the kids, especially the ones that I am including for your viewing pleasure, but I wondered if she might kindly edit the ones of me, so that I didn’t look 7 months pregnant. That morning, I had unfortunately chosen a billowy top that I thought was tres chic until I saw myself. I think “not flattering” would sum it up nicely.
Feeling decidedly frumpy, I went down to CVS to get a bottle of water and peruse the choices of canned delights for lunch. As I checked out, my “special friend” (refer to Mrs. Robinson blog) asked me, “Do you go to the gym?” I thought that I hadn’t heard him correctly so I said, “Excuse me?” He said, “Do you go to the gym?”
I laughed awkwardly and said, “Well, whenever I make myself get up. But I do try.” He said, “Well it shows, whatever you are doing is just enough. Keep it up, you look great.”
Oh yes, please massage my ego, you lovely, young checker at CVS, you. Tell me more about me and my tough, gym body. I want to believe you....I really do. As I floated out the door on my cougar high, the billowy top pictures were just a bad, bad memory. Laters.

Peter Pedi

I was taken back for my turn at the nail salon by a taciturn man named Peter, the only man in a shop full of women. I do not know if he was silent because of his misfortune to make his living massaging the calves of ageing matrons and giddy teenagers, or because he is naturally a quiet man, but we shared a bond, Peter and I.

He said "Good morning," and I said, "Good morning" and that was that; the sum and total of our conversation. Perhaps he knew that I am not one for endless chatter, answering questions about my life, opening myself up like a book to a stranger. Perhaps he knew that it was my day off, and he chose to let me enjoy it.

He directed my feet in and out of the water with gentle taps to my ankles and the process was smooth, ritualistic, like a dance step already memorized. I sat staring out the window at the cars passing by, drinking my skim latte; enjoying the opportunity to disconnect.

The shop only contained a few customers other than myself and Peter treated me to a longer than normal leg massage, never once making eye contact, never once acknowledging that I was there or that he was present either. I wondered if he liked legs, if he enjoyed seeing them, if it was a job perk.

When he was done, he passed me on to the nail tech, his face blank as I said thank you, his expression never altering. I was amazed at his ability to so thoroughly shut me out while performing so intimate a task and I cannot explain why this particular act impressed me. Perhaps I did not expect the disconnect to be so finite, maybe I like the chitchat, but don't want to admit it, maybe knowing that my presence meant nothing more to him than a check at the end of the day unnerved my endless supply of self importance.

I walked away knowing that there was a life lesson to experience, though I am still thoughtful about what it might be. Laters.

Rage Against The Machine

I like talking to inanimate objects, do you? I talk to my car, my computer, the dishwasher, my curling iron, and the list goes on.

I confess, they are not brilliant conversations, most of my dialogue consists of the single phrase," What is wrong with you, you stupid thing?"

If Sher is in the car, she promptly reminds me that "Stupid" is a bad word and that we are not allowed to say it. I am always ashamed to be a Mullins family rule breaker.

Please note that it is always the inanimate objects that are at fault, never me; the dishwasher door that refuses to close, the curling iron that shuts itself off, the computer that freezes or won't load FB.

There, I said it. I have inanimate object rage. I feel so much better…..I think. Laters.

Mi Casa Nuevo

I like my new house. It felt like home very quickly, though there are still many, many boxes to unpack. I took a break tonight since K and I are thoroughly exhausted. In the unpacking process, I dropped a bed frame on my foot setting up our bed. That really felt great, and I'm sporting a big bruise on the top of my foot.
My favorite thing is our new bedroom and my beast new closet. My shoes have plenty of room and they are extremely happy in their new home. I like to see them as soon as I walk in the closet and they like to be seen, so we are both pleased. The closet drawback is that K and I share and he is ((whisper)) messy. So we'll have to see how that goes. Laters.