March 1, 2011 – National Pancake Day

After a brief argument between my two dueling selves, I got out of bed at 5:45 a.m., exercised for 30 minutes, got the kids up, made breakfast, got ready for work, made it to work, attended meetings, went to the gym over lunch hour and exercised for 35 more minutes, dashed over to car wash to get Hitchcock-style Birds attack of poo off of my Sachi, raced to another meeting only to learn it is tomorrow, headed back to work, finished out the day a little late because I got into a conversation about how important mammograms can be, picked up the kids, and made the executive decision to celebrate our daughter’s long day of mandated public school testing by getting some free pancakes in celebration of National Pancake Day.

I rarely, if ever, use these post to list out my boring-ass litany of daily activities. Don’t worry – I do have a reason.

While celebrating our free pancakes, we were given an opportunity to donate money towards Shriners Hospitals. While they do amazing work around the country for our kids who have been victims of fire as well as those needing orthopedic care, I got them confused in my head with the Scottish Rite Hospital where I have a had more than one friend with children be treated.

Sitting with my two healthy (albeit quarrelsome-of-late) kiddos, I was smacked in the face with blessed gratitude for never having yet needed either of these two worthwhile organizations.

We donated anyway even though I thought I was helping the institution that helped my friends’ kids. I may bitch about how tired I get from working two full time jobs – one 40 hours a week and the other 24/7. I may whine and require a bit of vegging out while composing angsta-poems. I may even feel sorry for my incredibly blessed lot in life on occasion.

However, just the thought of the families connected to both of these hospitals and others, makes it pretty damn impossible to think my day was anything but a gift I am honored to live.

February 28, 2011 – Same but Different

Noise abounds nowhere
louder than inside my head.
Iced magma still burns.

Every night I go to sleep, I have what I consider to be the strangest dreams. Maybe they are regular dreams and because I am constantly trying to find meaning in them, I assume they are out-of-the-ordinary. Either way, I have them every night.

By the time I wake up, I am more exhausted than when I lay my tired little head down. I am constantly herding my kids away from danger, rearranging a house that is mine and yet not, fighting with the parents of my youth, chasing a body of weight engulfing my thin dream body, learning of a pregnancy that can no longer be, or drowning in a vacuum of words unspoken.

I know writing a well-hidden, word press journal-style blog will not cure cancer, erase memories immune to cleaning fluids or create world peace.

I also know when I am not writing these personal vignettes in this way or with a bit of poet license, my dreams are exponentially more debilitating.