“It’s kind of fun interrupting and completing people’s sentences, “I said.
I think of Dan Pink’s Whole New Mind, and make a wish on a rogue strand of Delanie’s blonde hair, like a wafting spider web. Wish for something different. Maybe self control. But not just yet. Not in this delightful moment. Wish to find a solution in this chronic, problematic vice that’s interrupting authentic communication, prevents me from listening well, and causes me to ask why this behavior? What the motivation?
My daughter slaps me playfully upside the head and says, “It’s called…..SHUT UP!” I know this profile. This stand up commic on a roll and do not want to stop routine.
She is trying…..ha ha…….to do homework. I’m attempting to start to write a lesson plan. Both of us epically failing. Winning in Freeky Fridazing. I wonder why I’m still thinking about school things when I should be abandoning that scene.
While other family member snooze and snack on movies, I choose to work on blog, blog, blogging. Funny how easy it is to keep focus in this thing. I do not interupt this much. But other people, I do….. interrupt………regularly….. with high frequency. Feeling I am sometimes heard and understood as one long stalting, mechanically read list of frye phrases. Have to pinch myself in punishment…..in dosing speech and reading intervention. JK. No….I think I have an over active hypothasmus…..only secondary to a condition I like to call predictorignoramous. I am prone to quickly thinking ahead like in an interactive madlibs game, and supplying clever pun-CH lines. This annoys others greatly. Especially when watching movies. Sorry.
This is fun until it is not fun for others. “Fun in that this language crime…is a creative, even entertaining speech form. A form of improvization without the troupe. ” I have done improv with people who are merely half-minded, half wits, or children. Adults of course can sometimes be the wors.
I’m RIGHT in saying they have LEFT me wanting so much more in spontanaity, rate, accuracy, expression, and comprehension. When living in the hypothetical, it doesn’t help to ask for page referrences, to drop the ball in fumbling in wait time.
But this is also good for me. In this I’m given cause and reason to slow DOWN, to learn empathy, patience, and Golden Ruling. I think a muzzle, or a gag would be a nice approach from time to time. Perhaps that why my family volunteers to buy the extra large, buttered tub of popcorn. Hmmm. When I listen and try very hard, I can muster an occasional quality listening moment.
“The truef is…..it’s more like……freaking annoying!” cries Delanie.
I know she is trying half-heartedly to finish a book review of The Fallen Star, an incestual fantasy. This sounds a bit distrubing. I am reminded of another book that Devon read her eighth grade year at Weilelenman called A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
“It’s a really good book (Fallen Star). I just haven’t finished it.” she admits.
Chits! Words fly across the monitor. Fill my mind and cloud the air like saw dust from a circular saw. The text box fills with kindling. Clutters with little pieces of paper that blow out the window in a cold Northern Woods wind, disturbing a placid sugar bowl.
I am typing this realistic dialogue when my daughter looks over and notices I am recording every bit of this with occassional embellishment.
“Hey! Are you typing that on your blog! Don’t do that! People will think I’m a _________. (weirdo? nerd?)
“Do you even know what that is?” My left brain races to a scene in the Princess Bride.The pathetically forced marriage scene. “Merwij is wut bwings us togevah today.” I pause to pull up Wiki pages and we read that the word “waif” is not necessarily one that means “skinny, anorexic pubecent.” This, my #1, first frontal lobe listing. No.
waif- noun. is a neglected, abandoned child; Delanie. Tonight she was home alone homeworking, while the rest of us swam the fish bowl. Remided of a youtube video I watched last spring, and Kevin of the classic Home Alone. “You dirty rat!”
“Hey, this is me!” says Delanie. The alone loner girl. I change face to “sad.”
I am sobbered for a moment in realizing the state of adulthood that I am in and the neglectful, dead beat mother I have become since my son gained Italian citizenship and became old and wise in bringing souls to Christ in a wine and cheese country.
Delanie tries to relieve me with another leading question. Takes me away from missing Anziano Robertson and toward loving my youngest daughter more and more.
“If you could go anywhere with your best friend, where would it be?” asks Delanie. I think I would retain residency. I think I would become a homebody like my girl. Hang with her. Go to the spillway…..to spill my soul. The listen very carefully.
Some Answers: Italy, France, to my neighbor, to Victoria’s Secret stash? Did you say SALE?!
No. “To the refrigerator,” laughs my girl. I don’t think this is all that funny. She eats ALL the ice cream. IT IS… More like….SCAREY!!!! In that CHUCKY could resurrect in my vegetable crisper, and Cheese grows amazing green fuzzy mold in the butter keeper. Relief Society frightmares. 😦 Yum! We roll on the bed anyway as if in a coughing fit requiring quarantine.
SCAREY as a frantic search for a LOST child….. like LAST AND ONLY coveted mozarella cheese stick tug o war. Stringy school bus mass transit mishap. Decided tension pulls away like a brittle wishbone all that is right and reasonable in parent teacher partnerships. Again…..the chits. Record this in the ledger. Blow away. Payrolling under the weight. Skid road Donkeys. Logging, logging business.
We start pulling ridiculous faces. Fun house ware. Wixie cropbox stretchings. Mine looks like the worst impression of a dead squirrel by well known a student artist. Some school days this is so funny. Requires frequent twenty second smiling. Crazy, cross-eyed, twitchy, dead squirrel faces. And then Ba-bye.
“Hey, why don’t you let me wear this expression with your new squirrel sweater from T.J. Max?” This article of clothing is beige and has a bushy tail. Real faux fur. I think it would be good for a Friday hug maybe. Certainly many comments and pettings. Back stage cage for a featured “Animal of the Week.” SCIENCE of a real touch magnet, no doubt. Hmmm. Maybe not best behavior material. Adaptations are needed. :0
We calm again and briefly touch on “What is beauty, and beautiful.”
I feel I am only pretty…..when I’m happy, I think. Or when I feel desired somehow. Delanie best explains in terms of what boy like. This feels both true and false. Looks like the truth though. My actions…..the proof.
Delanie flashes an image at me. If she were a super hero, she would be Ipod girl. I think of the Wonder Women piece of art at the Kimball. Of Jenny Diersen. She is a dear daughter.
I ask Delanie, “What’s a meme?” She looks at me with a “What do you meam?” look.
We meme…..Ermahgerd! This is a posted photo that has been photo shopped and contains the face of a sour puss blonde with juvenile pig tails on each side of her head, and carrying serveral GOOSEBUMPS books. She exists in any number of riduculous settings, on any crazy topic imaginable, saying “Ermahgerd!”
Makes blasphemous profanity even funny somehow. I no longer feel I need to repent of this because it feels so Gerd Dern Gerd!
The Ermahgerd girl looks like my paralegal older sister Kimie. On the lamb, at age twenty with five small boys….Ermahgerd! My Kimie, trapped in time, in a freeking gender sex role trying to live the Mormon Dream. Dern Talibern!
Stop it Delanie! Just Stop it! ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! hee heee heeeeee ha ha
We see the ‘Ster Wers’ one, the “Kern Flerks” one, the animated “Clarernert” one, the “Bererk Obermer.” Does not take long to find an Ermahgerd for just about everyone I know, and even like. Star Wars for Koy. Kern Flerks for Mark. Clarernert for Dr. Hunter and the Eighth Grade Band. Bererk Obermer for my friend, the Goatman.
Ermahgerd it’s furting me! Ouch!
Suddenly I feel the after effects of a hard core, CORE workout at the end of swim team. I am laughing sooo hard. I nearly fall in the pool in leaning into liking this. I think I freaking love this…..and it has been sooo long since I’ve had this abgasmic experience….and dang yeah!………and “Thank you, Delanie…” and I just want to cry tears of joy for this sudden miracle, I think.
With all the germs orbiting, no- invading, no- penetrating every possible habitable inner and outer space of my elementary school home, I am put at ease by this laughter. Preventative Medicine. Wholistic healer. I am thinking and thanking that this play form is releasing me from the sure grip of citrus Lysol crop dust clouds. Suddenly, I can breath essential oils in feeling a great release of emotion. In video game form I feel I have just gained a million bazillion points and many hundreds of lives.
I frankly feel I have fallen prey to Madan Kataria’s international laughter epidemic. That Delanie and I have inadvertantly entered a Laughter Club. I have read that there are many happy spots in India and others in Mubai. Now there is one in my bedroom. A kind of Ermahgerd Ery Potter Room of Requirement.
“My abs are killing me!” as if I were the one who swam four events at the Roland Hall Invitational at the this afternoon. Two of these relays at the Steiner Aquatic Center, instead of dragging around what feels like an aged sprained ankle that feels more like a swollen summer sausage roll.
I am feeling so incredibly laid out by this work out. Wonder what could have been postponin’ this Oxytonin rush? I don’t want it to stop ever. I am feeling in terms of avalanche proportions another new addiction. Reach for the accidental tourist Nicotene Gum found in Pearl last Saturday.
No. This is a song I know. It comes and goes. But lately, I’d rather like to think I’m playing this in moderation. Really not been playing at all. More like an unfortunate famine in the land. Comes as a beloved down pour. Texas soaker in the arroyo. I want to say a broche’ in the mind and heart of an innocent child like Marven of the Great North Woods. Give thanks. This feels and tastes like bacon. Mmmmm. Like Marven gifted me eight times eight pieces. Kosher Cool!
I imagine the front office. A kind of convergence of driftwood, sea horses, beach balls, winged children, sediments, and soggy tumble weeds soaking like soured bread and milk. Laughter rising and raging throughout, like enthusiasm catching fire. A little girl singing with her guitar playing papa. Pausing to listen for fireworks. Faces exploding in expression. Communicable, like something infectious. Like my once upon a time smile. You used to like this. Now I am “The Girl With the Broken Smile.”
I want to stay awhile in this laughter space with my fourteen year old. I want to talk and talk and connect with someone mythical. I want to be a mermaid writer riding waves, in The Mermaid Swims Again sequel. Right after the Lone Ranger Rides. The Mermaid rides the waves of word play. Hopes for high tide tomorrows.
Perhaps the sea will bear a gift. Or ask for one. Why not? A limestone seafloor could become a blue sky, a blue message in a bottle, a mega land slide and updraf of SEA DOLLARS. Salt spray! Hooray! The dogs and I found an antique bottle on the shore two weeks ago. Lilac tonic. There must be some enchanted meaning in this thing among so many index fossils. I must keep dreaming laughs and looking into blue skies. Laughing eyes. And laugh clubs.