Ordinary Life

Julie tucks a stray curl the color of cinnamon and ginger, behind her ear as she finishes filling in the deposit slip.

Tom bikes to the Minute Clinic pulling an empty toddler trailer behind his faithful old Townie. His teal scrubs show no signs of exertion, even though the morning is hot and tropic. After his shift, he will pick the typhoon twins up from the day camp being held at the old school. It is the last day of  junior surf camp. All week, the added steps of putting surf gear away and removing as much sand as it takes to comfortably ride home has added an extra half hour to the boys' pick-up routine.  Just time enough to pull the clinic shades for a power nap and wake in time to stop by Julie's for his usual.  Julie closes at four, but she doesn't leave until Tom stops by, even if he's running late. She always has a smoothie on standby for him and a little something to eat. Tom is always appreciative, even when the smoothie has spinach.   Islanders know all about Tom's naps and we take special care not to disturb him when he's fortunate enough to grab one.  Between endles...

Our hands brushed as we tucked our daughter into bed between us.  He pulled away quickly as if burned, despite a lack of spark.   Exasperated sigh; me. Our bodies have touched, remember? They've been intertwined. Look at the child between us. How do you think those get here? These were only thoughts. We have been stuck fast in a No Speaking zone for weeks. No Touching Zone, too. Obviously. Down with sixty second hugs, We laughed at the couple who did not know how.  'Always kiss me goodnight' Pretty, plastic platitude. I understand not wanting to touch. I need those walls, too. Bites always forthcoming.   Please, do, just stay over there In your corner Pouting. Jimmy Wayne, baby. Stay gone. The touch was accidental This is all so typical. First it's loud bravado  and then a falling back, victimized by yourself, the blame is shifted to me. He makes a list of all the things I am not; tells me to just leave. I am not: a good mother a godly person genuine I think of ...

It costs four hundred and fifty dollars per month to keep your wife in storage. That's how much Aunt Muddy charges for rent at the old family house Grandma Jody left her. It's a bargain really, at more than a third your current rent. The hidden cost comes in the form of your wife being back in proximity to her family. She will be with them every waking minute, obviously. The last twenty years of running interference is almost immediately bankrupted when she calls to make the arrangements. No one says 'I told you so' or that they've been expecting this call for the last two decades, but you can feel the needle from three states away. Your wife seems oblivious to the prick as she packs her books.  Why does she need all those books? So many books. She wasted no time, did she? The first box may have even been packed before she called Aunt Muddy. She ought to be upset at what they've got to be thinking about her. She ought to have more pride than that. But she doesn...

The listing read "Stitch me back together." It was a hand-turned vessel, made from grapevine, that had cracked under pressure.  It caught my attention. I am drawn to finding beauty in broken things because I am a broken thing. If we were to have a show of hands, I'm probably not the only one. So it was that I adopted this broken vessel as a kind of self-portrait. When it arrived, I discovered 'FRAGILE' apparently means something like 'Please shake til glass breaks' in post office speak. The test tube had shattered. While it retained its shape, it would not retain water. What's more, it was not keen on leaving its cozy wood lodgings; it was stuck. The two vessels were broken individually and together.  Yesterday, I finally found a chance to sit alone with 'myself' and consider the broken vessel.  Before contemplation:  I started to use gold paint with  kintsugi  in mind, but rather quickly had a different inspiration. After contemplation:  Fault...

The corridor smelled like burnt popcorn as I walked to the back of the children's wing to pick up my daughter. A memory was startled loose that slowed my steps. I had forgotten the burnt popcorn. I continued to smile and greet other parents passing by and took my place in line to claim my child. I fished to the bottom of my bag for the key ring I kept my child security fob on  and wondered to myself if there was anything else I had forgotten. The acrid smell followed us back down the hallway and out into the sunshine. It climbed into the car with us and buckled its seat belt. Only then did I realize Marlow had been given a coffee filter filled with just-slightly charred popcorn to take with her from an apparently failed snack break. "Nice of them to ask." I grumbled. I didn't really mind her having the snack. I just felt grumbly all of a sudden. After a few quick errands, we unloaded the car and got out of our scratchy Sunday best. How I longed for the days when Sunda...

I think of telling you about these little writing jaunts. I promised myself  that once I reached ten entries, I would mention it. Technically this is the tenth, but only the eighth if we don't count drafts.  I am mentally negotiating over whether I meant published entries or not. Either way, eventually, it is something I am compelled to do.  I am afraid, believing that the moment I do, time will slip away from me and I will be idle for another decade. Ten entries will sit, gathering dust and random spam comments until one by one I revert them to draft and blanch from shame. The things I write out loud taunt me, you know. I don't want to make an unintentional promise. Now-- I laugh at myself. As if you are sitting on your hands, eager to read me or disappointed that I haven't made any recent contributions.  I don't think that way about myself at all. If anything, I've been waiting on something worthy of sharing to strike me, to pour spontaneously from my hands. I wil...

You cannot just write yourself into the story as a hero,especially not your own story. You have to live as a hero first. You must be brave. You must do the things you'd like to read about yourself. You must do them at once. You only have today.  

I woke myself with a cry. Deep gasping breaths and tears pooled in my eyes; I was awake but kept my eyes closed. My pillow was damp but not in the usual,  only-one-side-from-deep-sleep-drooling way. Instead, either side of my face was met with cool wet spots where tears had streamed and cooled under the ceiling fan's Medium breeze. I lay motionless as thoughts and sensations rolled over me like fog mingling with tide at sunrise. Still groggy, I couldn't decide if I was underwater nor if the snatching of such deep and audible breaths was entirely necessary. Perhaps subconscious me was leaning into this thing a bit much. As a person who frequently denies myself freedom of expression, especially that of crying in front of others, I cannot deny I am disturbed by this subconscious self- mutiny. I wake to find you guys not only crying, but dramatically so? And you're going to give her permission to hyperventilate like that? C'mon Brain! This is not us. A tiny mental post-it n...

Our town is an old one. One of the oldest in Florida, actually. People come here because our clocks are stuck at twenty years past the current decade. The pleasures here, like the people, are simple. An ice cream cone and "Putt-Putt" golf are the only seaside diversions you'll find, unless you are an alcoholic, in which case you're gonna like this place plenty. Our Putt-Putt is the official kind, one of the last handful remaining in the country and one of only two in the entire state.That official status means tournaments come to town at least once a year, bringing a fair count of at least sixty tourists and their dollars to our sleepy little red-ink town. Pretty remarkable, when you stop to think about it. I mean, we don't have anything. The other one is in Oddlando, who has at least one of everything. Just think, little old us, keeping up with big, fancy them. Our DayGlo orange bumpers have held their own for decades against seaside elements and hurricanes; ...

I was away for two nights. Hopping in the shower upon my return, I noticed the hand soap in our shower stall. I wrapped a towel around myself and poked my head into the bedroom where he was reclined. "Tell me you didn't resort to this." I held up the  pump of Pink Himalayan hand soap. "I did." he said. "I couldn't find the shampoo." I pulled the shampoo from hiding in clear sight. "Oh" his reply followed me back to the shower. I sloughed away the weary miles and considered the differences between us gals and guys that some deny exist.  I pondered marital roles. I felt slightly more valuable, for this moment at least, to this man  now reunited with his shampoo. I breathed a prayer of gratitude that I have  married a man who at least takes a shower when I am not around. Blessings abound... if you know where to look.

:: incomprehensible  screeching over the line:: "It's her." said my date's mom, as she handed him the phone. He walked into the other room, trailing his half of their conversation behind them like a cord. "It's none of your business who it is." he informed the receiver, before his voice faded into the other room. And then we went to dinner. ~~~ "I don't know. I'll ask. It's not that big a deal, okay?" He hung up and turned his attention my way. 'Did you take him to see Santa?' I had. And I hadn't known it was sacred ground. I just thought we were having fun. Kids like Santa and I was babysitting this kid. I didn't have any of my own. It turns out Santa is a special thing that parents do with their kids. I was dating his parent, not his actual parent - oopsie daisy.  

I'd been in the shower for three days, and still I wasn't clean. I looked through the fogged shower glass  to the alarm clock beside my bed. Okay, twenty-seven minutes to be exact. Still, twenty-seven minutes alone in my head can be an eternity... and I had yet to do anything but stand under the spray of hot water. I decided then to speed things up by taking a man's shower.  That is to say, I'd skip the loofah and hair conditioner and use the woodsy-smelling green bottle of 3-N-1, instead of the three lilac scented pastel bottles meant to be used successively.  The combination was meant to unlock a woman's secret beauty according to the happy spokeswoman on their paid advertising blocks during television's insomnia shift. Ha! (had that been aloud?) With no secrets and no beauty to unlock, I should be able to knock this shower out with a one-two punch: hair, body, out!  I had things to do, important, pressing things and I needed to finish them right a...