there might be a good reason I’m not a Hallmark writer

Then again, maybe my voice is precisely what’s needed to round out their collection of $6.99 Valentine’s Day cards.

Roses are red,
violets are blue...
wait, are violets blue?  what do violets look like again?
are those flowers that die every year?
'cause that would be a really crappy flower for a love poem...
a love poem I've ruined because I don't know my freaking flowers.
just forget the whole thing, dammit.

I would pour my heart out, my sweet -
tweeting the depth and breadth of our love
out into the universe
so the very stars themselves could admire
its brilliant resilience -
if only my Twitter account hadn't been suspended
for inappropriate language.

You're the man who always takes my side
  of the bed...
who ignores my quirks
  unless the guests needs an entertaining anecdote
and smooths my hair
  aside, so it doesn't block the tv.
We fit together like a 1,000 piece puzzle -
  edges smooth, picture delightful,
  with the occasional breakdown while piecing together the sky.

The man (woman, person, lover, dog) of my dreams
is strong and sure -
sure in the knowledge we must have lost our minds,
thinking ourselves the master of our fate
when we're caught on a planet spinning 'round the sun,
trusting gravity to hold us fast.
You stare aghast
at the clutter scattered about me
while I think perhaps, at long last,
I've met The One who keeps a calendar.
But alas,
I'd be wrong.

You're the yin to my yang,
the sweet to my sour,
the only one I'll share my nachos with.
True love forever, baby.
(But it lasts longer if you bring your own nachos.)

gratitude: not everyone has a grownup tree

I’m not surprised people feel a special fondness for Christmas trees.  They’re beautiful and often wrapped in a lifetime of fond memories, family and friends and nostalgia galore.  Some of them are actually gorgeous – grown up trees with a theme and coordinated colors, ones that make you stop and gaze in awe.

My tree isn’t a grown up tree, never has been, but I surely do love it.

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’tis the season…

…for love.

Period.  No exceptions.

I can’t say I’m familiar with that old saying, “Love your neighbor.  Except Jim Bob who owns three guns, worshipers at the local mosque, and Kim’s girlfriend.”  But all too often this seems to be how the world runs.

‘Tis the season for love…

  • except for those folks over there who look different than me.
  • except for the blacks, the whites, the Mexicans, or the illegals.
  • except for the Muslims, the Jews, the Hindus, the atheists, the Christians, or the heathens.
  • except for the Republicans, the Democrats, the political activists, the apolitical, or “those people who f*cked it up for everyone else.”
  • except for the lesbians, gays, bisexuals, transgenders, transsexuals, queers, intersex, or asexuals.

Nope.  Just…nope.

‘Tis the season for love.


the gifts that don’t come in packages

“We do the best we can with what we have.”  Well, isn’t that the truth.

“But then I heard it: the truth.  And let me tell you, this parenting truth is setting me free this Christmas.

I remembered the path we were on as a family eight years ago and I thought about the childhood I wanted to give my kids that was full of stuff and things and a bottomless well of never being satisfied.  We played the disappointing game of comparison and no matter how much we got, we only wanted more.  We tried to be like everyone else and it was exhausting and disappointing.”

This Parenting Truth Is Setting Me Free This Christmas: We Are THAT Family Blog by Kristen Welch

SoCS – we believe in magic, but sometimes there’s gotta be a limit

You’ll never believe what my kid did yesterday.  It’s not like they’re tiny tots anymore, they know how this Christmas thing goes, and we are a family who believes in the magic of Christmas.  We Believe.

But we’re also realists.

We ask the kids to give us ideas for Christmas but limit them to four categories.  The whole want/need/wear/read thing works for our family, so they give us suggestions for those.  Then I slide a surprise in their stocking ‘cuz, you know, Christmas.

But a week ago T-man came to us and asked if he could change his Want because, well, whatever, just because.  Nope, sorry fella, too late.

But yesterday he comes out of his room at 9:00 at night to say hey, listen, there’s this new game that just got released –

Are you freaking kidding me??

Yes, we believe.  Yes, Christmas is magic.  But you cannot change/adapt/amend your Christmas wish list three days before The Day.  Dude.  I get this happening at five or seven or even nine, but not now.

Sorry, man, but this Santa is flat out of miracles.  Plus I just might lose my mind if I go anywhere near a shopping center today.

Linda’s stream of consciousness prompt drops on Saturdays.  This week’s prompt was to start my post with “yule,” “you’ll,” or “Yul.”

fastened pants: The Final Frontier

Because let’s face it…we all had an extra helping (or two) of those potatoes.

“Wearing jeans for the first time after Thanksgiving is an important milestone.  When you wear denim again, you’re staking your claim as a fastened pants person.  After the third day of eating stuffing leftovers and wearing the elastic band of denial, I knew I was it was time to take action.

The thought of pulling and zipping may seem overwhelming when the heaviest thing you’ve lifted lately is a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes, but you can do this.  It isn’t easy leaving leggings, athleisure, and sweatpants behind, but if I was able to survive eight hours in my most forgiving pair of four-way stretch jeans, you can do it, too.”

I Wore Jeans for the First Time Since Thanksgiving and Lived to Tell the Tale – Sass & Balderdash

candy redux, Halloween style

In the tradition of kids everywhere, Bear returned from trick-or-treating on Tuesday and promptly dumped her bag to check out her score.  She didn’t even make it into the house – BrightSide and I were on the porch greeting littles (and bigs and in-betweens), so she and her friend flopped right down on the sidewalk to tally things up.

They were the perfect example of candy methodology, too.  One sorted hers into neat piles, combining like candies and weeding out the unsavory; the other just shoved it all into a huge mountain and (metaphorically) rolled around in her take for the night.  Can you say childhood flashback?

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