Friday, January 24, 2014

The Tonsillectomy (Part 3) - The Party


The patient has gone back to college.

Left behind . . .
is a refrigerator filled with
JELLO AND PUDDING.

Left behind . . .
is a freezer filled with
POPSICLES AND ITALIAN ICE.

And, the cooler on the back deck
   is still over-flowing with beer,
though the temperatures have risen above freezing
so I lack the confidence to tell you that they are still
   "ice-cold".

However . . . 

I am considering having a "post-tonsillectomy" party.

Pro hockey players, babies, and the elderly . . . are welcome.

http://monkeypickles.com/2014/01/21/the-tonsillectomy-part-3-the-party/

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Winter's Stay


Just an hour’s drive from home . . .

From a distance,
I notice the snow-touched mountains,
   calling; beckoning.

Like taking a step back to appreciate a work of art,

I soak it all in,
Until, suddenly, we are
   navigating through the winding,
Snow-covered roads.  

Lightness turns to dark . . . 

White crystals, sparkling, beneath a magical, star-kissed sky.

Guiding the way – the moon; so big and bright,
   it hardly seems real. 

To our cabin, our cottage, our bungalow . . .

Our winter’s stay. 


Monday, January 6, 2014

The Tonsillectomy (Part 2) - Wine Doesn't Smell


My daughter could not eat a thing,
                           though she frequently fantasized about it.

So, I tried to refrain from cooking,
for fear that the aroma might cause her unbearable torture.

Her sense of smell, however, had suddenly taken on a canine quality.

She would send me texts from two floors up, asking me what I was eating.
Turns out, carryout food has a much stronger smell than I realized.

So, I tried eating non-smelly foods:
                    salad, raw fruits and vegetables, nuts, and cheese.
Fortunately (for me), all of the unhealthy, non-smelly foods (e.g. potato chips)
had already been consumed.

There could be an advantage to this, I thought.

As my poor daughter was being forced to survive on ice chips, popsicles, and jello,
   maybe I could lose a few pounds, as well.

One problem.

Wine doesn't smell.

At least, not in "that way" - that lures starving tonsillectomy patients from the other room.  

And, wine goes well with salad.
And, wine goes especially well with nuts and cheese.
And, there is plenty of wine in my house.

Willpower . . .

There is, also, a cooler on the back deck that is overflowing with beer,
   exceptionally chilled by the recent snowfall, courtesy of mother nature.

Beer doesn't smell (in "that way"), either.  

Willpower . . .

Currently, I can only fit into one pair of jeans,
   and a hole is developing in a very . . . conspicuous place,
which means that I either need to reduce my eating (and drinking) habits,
or buy a new pair of jeans . . . shhhhh (in a larger size).  Gulp.

Willpower . . .

Maybe I should host a post holiday party to get rid of some of this stuff.

In the meantime . . .
   if I wear a long shirt, I think I can still get away with wearing the jeans.

In the meantime . . .
   pass the pistachios; they go really well with red wine.

But, I must crack those pistachios quietly.

My daughter has developed canine hearing abilities, as well.  













 



Sunday, January 5, 2014

The Tonsillectomy (Part 1)


After they filled her IV with "sleepy drugs",
   and wheeled her away . .
I paid a visit to the tiny little coffee shop, located in the lobby of the medical center.
I ordered a nonfat latte - LARGE (and, they actually called it "large"),
   because I anticipated a long wait.

Hmmm, and something to eat.   

What I really wanted
   was one of those golden-brown, flaky, buttery croissants
(staring at me through the glass case),
but it was January 2nd
and, though I am not a believer of New Year's resolutions,
   I could feel the results of all of the holiday partying
pressing up against (and spilling over) my jeans,
                  so . . .
   I grabbed a banana, instead.

I found a nice, intimate, light-filled window seat, and settled in.
   
One sip, however, and . . .
                                            yuck.

My "latte" tasted more like a cup of warm, nonfat milk infused in flavorless coffee.

But, it was all I had, and I needed my caffeine.

Unfortunately, about a quarter of the way through,
                                        my stomach was not very happy with me.

I could see the local headlines:

"While waiting for her daughter's tonsillectomy, mother dies of food poisoning
caused by hospital coffee.  Daughter is extremely sore, and wishing for her tonsils back, 
but is expected to make a full recovery." 

Fortunately (after a few trips to the bathroom), the episode passed,
   and aside from the unfortunate experience with abrasive hospital toilet paper,
I survived, unscathed.

My daughter, on the other hand, has been reduced to sucking on ice chips,
   and unsuccessfully satisfying her hunger (not to mention, self induced torture)
by watching Food Porn.

She was most recently quoted as saying (via text message):

   "This was the worst thing that I have ever experienced.  
                                                 Can I PLEASE have my tonsils back??!!"




     

Monday, December 16, 2013

Searching for Ugly


I was pretty sure this was the place.

Had it been dark out, I could have easily missed it.
Behind the coffee shop, and around the corner from the tattoo studio, 
   it was small, and (yet) indiscreet.  

I pulled into the alley, between the short row of red, brick buildings,    
   and parked the car. 

And, I am not sure if it was the way 
   that I was dressed, 
or the desperate and determined look in my eyes, 

                                 BUT . . . 

when he appeared from the back room, 
   he seemed to know exactly what I had come for.  

He showed me his stash. 

   "This is IT?" I asked.

   "Everybody wants some," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.  

I stood back, assessing the size, shape, and quality of his goods.

   "Do you have anything . . . uglier?" I asked.

   "The ugliest are the first to go," he said.  
   "We should be getting some uglier ones in next week."

   "Okay," I said.  "I'll come back then."  

With a nod, and half a smile, he returned to the back room.

And, as I exited through the front door, 
   the sign dangled to and fro.


   WE HAVE UGLY CHRISTMAS SWEATERS.  



Monday, December 9, 2013

The Quitter's Studio

As we were driving past the line of brightly lit storefronts,
   my oldest son blurted something out from the back seat.

     "QUITTERS studio???"

I turned my head in the direction where he was looking, and could not help but laugh.   

     "QUILTERS studio," I corrected.  

It did not compute.

     "O-kay, sooooooo, what's a QUILTERS Studio???"

But, he had already lost me.
I was much too distracted
   imagining what a "QUITTERS" studio would look like -
a guilt free zone filled with unfinished projects.   

A portrait painting with barely a face,
   a knitted sweater with no arms,
a wooden chair with not enough legs.
a metal clock with no hands . . .

Island of Misfit Projects.       

A speckled wall that still needs painting.
   piles of papers that still need filing,
kitchen chairs that need tightening,
a broken bookshelf that needs repairing . . .

Suddenly, I realized, my dream had crossed over to reality.

THAT'S MY HOUSE.

And, then, a brilliant thought came over me.  

I could start charging money every time someone enters my home.      

"Welcome to my home!"  I would say.
"Please enjoy and appreciate my unfinished projects.
   And, don't forget to enjoy the unfinished cookies and coffee, as well."  

Technically, though, "unfinished" is not the same as "quitting".

I do intend to finish those projects . . . some day.

Maybe after Christmas.

   "Mom!" my thoughts were interrupted.  "What's a QUILTERS studio?"

   "A place where people go to buy materials and get ideas for making quilts," I responded.

   "What KIND of quilts?" he asked.

   "You know, like, blankets, comforters, bedspreads . . . hand stitched and embroidered.  There are people who do that," I responded.

With a look on his face, as if I had just given him the most bizarre piece of information, and it was his job to solve this "problem", he said,

   "Can't they just buy one at Bed, Bath & Beyond???" 






Monday, December 2, 2013

You Can Pick A Turkey (but you can't pick your relatives)


 It was late afternoon . . . 

The sun – just barely peeking through,
   casting a warm glow across the linen dressed table.  
Perfectly choreographed fine china. 
Candlelight - flickering, flirting;
   dancing alongside the portly glasses, adorned in red.  
Turkey - carved, and presented, beautifully, on a platter. 
Anticipation of a tasty, mouthwatering meal.    
And, as they all gathered ‘round, cousin Bob spoke 
     (a question, in the form of a statement, and very profound) :


    “DO I HAVE A BUTT CHIN.”


And, so began the dinner table conversation . . .


     “HE has a butt chin.”

     “SHE has a butt chin.”

     “YOU have a butt chin.”

     “I DO???”   

     “What IS a BUTT chin?”


     “I DO NOT HAVE A BUTT CHIN!!!” 


Suddenly, Grandma Rose,
     who is sometimes there (sometimes, not) chimed in:

     “With a chin like that, I’ll bet your mom had a hard time
                                                     figuring out which end to diaper.” 


                 STUNNED SILENCE.


                        LAUGHTER.


Then, cousin Bob spoke up, again.

   “Who can touch their tongue to the tip of their nose?”



And, the dinner conversation continued . . .