Bloganuary prompt: What makes you laugh?
“I’d say cherry Pop Tart.”
Dogs Make Me Laugh
2
“I’d say cherry Pop Tart.”
Category Archives: daily prompt
“I’d say cherry Pop Tart.”
Inspiration
Bloganuary prompt: Who is someone that inspires you, and why?
You inspire me.
Sometimes to be more like you,
Sometimes to be not like you at all.
Sometimes to be more like who I
know myself to truly be,
Sometimes to be better than I am
showing myself to be.
Sometimes, you inspire me to want
to be an inspiration to others, too.
I Wish I Could…
Bloganuary prompt: What is something you wish you knew how to do?
…communicate (better) with other species.
To Play or Not to Play
Bloganuary daily prompt: What was your favorite toy as a child?
Long story longer.
Art therapy for adults. Sometimes I hated it. Sometimes I loved it. Well, okay, love is a strong word, but sometimes it was insightful. A little insightful. Like if you squinted real hard from across the room at something you’d drawn, you might find a way to interpret the doodling as somehow relevant to your life. The art therapist, peering over shoulders as the patients worked on their projects, would sometimes nod or sigh or smile or give a little “hum” sound at the back of her throat as she walked around the room. All in all, it was kind of creepy.
I preferred the more structured assignments. One’s that didn’t involve jostling with the others for access to a pile of magazines for a collage project, trying to snag something that hadn’t been hacked to pieces by prior collage makers. Then trying to avoid eye contact with that person across the table who’s trying to guilt you into giving them the magazine you chose because out of the entire stack of magazines, that’s the only one that is bound to have the image they need for their masterpiece.
Just keep it simple. Hand me a piece of paper and a crayon and tell me to draw what depression looks like for me. Make sure it’s a black crayon and we’ll be set.
One day at group therapy, there was a large assortment of materials spread over the tables as we entered the art room.
“Today I just want you to play,” the therapist said. “Use whatever you want to draw, paint, cut patterns out of colored paper, glue photos together as a collage, make something out of pipe cleaners, whatever appeals to you.”
“Play? I’m in this damned program because I’m damned depressed and I’ll be damned if I feel like playing.” That was my thought. I sat there in silence, arms folded in front of me, staring at the clock on the wall. Daring the therapist to try and make me “play.”
“Come on, it’s fun!” exclaimed one overly jubilant woman. Obviously it was time to boot her out of the program. “Just pretend you’re a kid again and play like you did back then.”
“I didn’t play when I was a kid,” I snarled, and I stood up and left the room. Didn’t play as a kid? Where did that come from? Of course, I played. Didn’t I?
I did play. Make believe, storytelling, hide and seek. Mother may I. Red light, green light. Simon says. Operator. Checkers. But none of that came to mind, specifically to my depressed mind. I didn’t remember having fun.
Group therapy ended years ago for me, and thankfully I’m in a much better mental state these days. And yet, faced with the question today as to my favorite toy as a child, my first reaction was. “I didn’t have toys.”
Of course, I had toys. Matchbox cars, bikes, skates, etch-a-sketch, spirograph sets. Balls, dolls, stuffed animals, board games. I’m sure I had lots of toys, but it’s hard to remember.
Living with depression can be like walking around wearing blinders. You don’t have the bandwidth to deal with a whole lot, so you block out a large portion of what is happening. I’m not talking about blocking out memories of traumatic experiences. I mean blocking out all sorts of things, even memories of playing and having fun. And it gets to be habit.
I still have trouble; not a poor memory per se, but I don’t focus enough to memorialize well, if that makes sense. A part of me still thinks it needs the blinders, and so the details get lost. Or the big picture is lost. I don’t know.
All of this to say, if I had a favorite toy as a child, I don’t remember it. But that’s okay. I get to play with my grandkids’ toys now. My favorite? Probably the t-ball set. I can send that plastic baseball over the fence like Hank Aaron! Remember him?
Creature Comforts
I’m awake. The cat has been sitting on my chest for several minutes now, grooming himself. You wouldn’t think of cat’s paws as anything but soft, but something hard is jabbing me in the ribs. Do cats have elbows? Sharp pointy elbows?
I shift pillows and comforter from the edge of the bed and summon my dog with a pat on the mattress. Sometimes he comes, sometimes he sits in the doorway of the bedroom and scratches himself, his back foot thumping a frantic beat on the hardwood floors.
When he deigns to join me, I lift my face so his sloppy greeting licks my chin and not my face. Then -usually – he turns his back on me and plops down, waiting for his back rub, or his “booty scritch” as I call it.
His luxurious coat is so soft, I bury my face in it and work my hand up the length of his spine and back down. He leans into the pressure, and turns his eskie smile on me. A pat on his bum, and a final smooch from him ends the ritual, and he hops to the floor.
Less nimble, I roll to the edge of the bed, sit up, place my feet on the cold floor,
and climb out of my comfort zone.
Bloganuary daily prompt: Write about the last time you left your comfort zone.
Road Trip
Bloganuary Prompt for January 2: What is a road trip you would like to take?
I’m not much of a traveler. I find plenty of adventure right in my own back yard. Literally. Now, my definition of adventure may not match yours. Like the epitome of boredom: watching grass grow, or watching paint dry… I happen to enjoy both of those pastimes.
So when it comes to dreaming of road trips, I’ll stick to the one I took last October and will retrace next month, Washington State to Colorado.
My trusty buddy Chules and I left home on a Wednesday, two days later than planned due to an utterly random case of vertigo (me, not Chules). We dropped down from Vancouver, WA into Oregon and headed east along the Columbia River.
There would have been a lot of cool stuff to see along the way. The Columbia River Gorge is always scenic, The Bonneville Dam is – well – there. The historic town of Pendleton, OR is home to one of the Pendleton Woolen Mills, and offers tours of the mill as well as outlet shopping for their way cool blankets and clothing. If I were planning to sight see, I would probably continue east from Pendleton and fit in a stay at Joseph, OR to revisit the multiple bronze sculptures around town and to tour the bronze foundry.
But, alas, we were destination focused, so we turned southeastward from Pendleton, and made it to Nampa, Idaho before I had to stop for the night. (My vision only allows for daytime driving.)
The next day, we traversed Idaho, briefly dropped into Utah and then headed east into Wyoming, where we spent our second night in Rawlins, WY.
If I were going to dally in Utah, I might have visited the Great Salt Lake, and headed east from there to the Dinosaur National Monument near Vernal, UT. That would have then led me through some national forests and over the Rocky Mountains before arriving at my daughter’s home in Centennial, Colorado.
Instead, we took a more northern route across Wyoming to Cheyenne, WY and then down through Denver, CO to Centennial. The best thing about the trip was arriving in Centennial and getting to visit my six month old granddaughter.
And while I was there, I was able to watch grass grow while I weeded out part of their lawn. And I was able to watch lots and lots of paint dry as we repainted their living areas.
What could possibly make for a better trip than that?
To my Teenage Self
It’s January, and so begins the #Bloganuary Challenge from WordPress, where participants are given a daily prompt for blogging inspiration. Today’s prompt: What advice would you give to your teenage self? So here goes.
Dear Teenage Me:
Look at you! So young, I hardly recognize you – er, me. I know, you think it’s odd that an old fart like me is addressing you. You work so hard to stay invisible, and yet I see you. It’s not easy for me, either. I tend to avoid people, especially teenagers. You kids are very intimidating at that age. And, well, I try to stay invisible, too. Still.
You have a long row ahead of you (that’s a good thing so keep going), so here are some pointers to get you through a bit easier than I had it.
- When you get your wisdom teeth pulled in your twenties, do NOT use tequila as a pain killer. The side effects are not worth it. You will wake up wishing you could get more teeth pulled just to take your mind off the hangover.
- Nurture your artistic self. You don’t have to excel at art or music or writing or photography or stained glass or anything else in order to validate your interest and participation. If it feeds your soul, it’s worth doing.
- Don’t dance like nobody’s watching. Dance like you don’t give a flying leap whether they’re watching or not. That will come in handy when your second grader pulls you out on the floor during the school music program to dance the macarena with her.
- You’ll be a better parent than you think you can be. Listen to your kids. They’ll let you know how you’re doing. But maybe don’t let your children write their own absentee excuse notes for school. When you actually write one yourself, the school will think it’s fake because the signatures don’t match.
- Don’t despair. When you think you’ve hit rock bottom, there’s only one way to go: up.
Well, that’s about the extent of my garnered wisdom. Check back in another twenty years, and I can advise you on how to get through your midlife crises. By then, however, you’ll realize that you don’t need other people’s voices in your head, you just need to trust your own.
Wishing you many, many joy-filled years to come.
Love,
Your older and wiser self
Separations
wheat from chaff
gold flakes from silt
truth from lies
me from you
dVerse poets poetics: Wheat
Dog Walk
Yesterday you hugged the gravel path.
Today you strayed into wildflowers and
withers-high grass,
nose working the air as though
inhaling heaven itself.
Tonight I’ll pull burrs from the
long fur on your legs and bum.
Tomorrow, who knows?
With you, it’s all good.
dVerse poets Quadrille #110: Bumming around.
Chez Maggie
NaPoWriMo,*Day twenty-seven:
Today’s prompt: “write a poem in the form of a review. But not a review of a book or a movie of a restaurant. Instead, I challenge you to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. For example, your mother-in-law, the moon, or the year 2020 (I think many of us have some thoughts on that one!)”
Herewith,
Chez Maggie
“Do you have reservations, Madam?”
Oh, I have so, so many.
And calling me “madam” didn’t help one bit.
“Yes. Maggie… Quarantine for one.”
“Ah, of course! Right this way.”
Doesn’t look too bad on the outside.
Basic ranch style, minimal landscaping.
Is that the gardener digging in the flower bed?
Wearing a tuxedo?
Oh, I guess not. It’s the resident cat.
Inside, the vibe is very industrial.
Squirrel cage light fixtures;
original 1950s oak floors throughout,
pocked by staple marks, blackened with water stains.
Perhaps a tad too industrial:
an orange extension cord snakes down the hallway;
a Stanley toolbox claims half the floor space in the bathroom.
Sleeping accommodations are comfy.
pink sheets in a lilac room.
I question how long it’s been since the bedding was changed.
The gardener has come inside, and is now
curled up on a sunny patch of living room carpet.
The bathroom is small and appears to be under renovation.
It’s cute, though, despite the measuring tape left on the vanity top
and the caulk gun tucked hazardously beneath the rug.
As to cleanliness… well, let’s just say the industrial style
needs to include some industrial cleaning soon.
On to the kitchen. Oh, my.
I think I will be ordering delivery for the duration of my stay.
That’s okay. I can’t cook anyway.
It’s almost as if the keepers of this establishment knew that already.
A sliding glass door leads to an enclosed back yard, which –
curiously – continues the industrial theme.
A pair of saw horses stand at the ready.
A second pair have collapsed and lay in a heap where they fell.
Old splintered baseboards poke out from a stack of two by sixes
that had a former life as part of the now diminished deck.
On the lawn, a white dog has passed out in the shade.
Or so it appears; I can tell he is watching me through half-veiled eyes.
He must be the other tenant I was warned about,
but I was told he is an excellent self-distancer.
So this is where I’ll be spending the sum of my
indeterminate quarantine.
No five-star rating here, but the accommodations will suffice.
The tuxedo cat makes a sweet gardener.
The lawn ornament dog will keep me occupied;
he seems to have an acute sense of meal times.
I give this place a three “S” rating:
Stay home;
Stay safe;
Stay alive.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 