Archive for the ‘Writing Marathon’ Category

my feet have rough callouses on them
my pedicure is falling apart
my jeans are too tight
I have sweat on my forehead
my ankles are swelling (and no, I’m not pregnant)
I am dipping my feet in a fountain
outside of a presidential museum.
Wow, I’m a mess.
But life is good.
I am forever boggled by those
who just appear to have it all together
they don’t stumble on their words
they don’t have to only shop at the fat lady store
their hands are always soft and supple
no blemishes on their face
and their jewelry always goes so well with their outfit
I sometimes start to wonder, what am I doing wrong here?
And then I remember, that I don’t care.
I have too much wonderful in my life
to focus on the if-I-only-hads.
But then I’m around my friends, whom I dearly love,
and their house is 10 times bigger than mine
and it is spotless
their kids only eat organic foods and
they never jump off couches.
My friends, whom I’ve known since preschool,
who exercise everyday
who have PhDs
and travel several times a year to their beach-front condo
Watch out, I warn myself, you’re headed for that
oh poor me, dimly lit place in your mind.
Ah yes, I say to myself as I kick my feet in this fountain
My kids eat ravioli from the can
and go to the same at-risk school I teach at
and they climb on things
my house has tumbleweeds of cat hair
and a sink full of dishes
I didn’t exercise today and
I ate ice cream last night
while watching
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
I wear more makeup than probably needed
and it sweats off by the end of the day.
But ya know what?
I’m sitting here with my feet in a fountain
doing something I truly enjoy.
I will go home tonight to three boys that love me
for who I am.
So who cares what they have?
Because in my heart, I am happy.


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The smell of the bar makes me think of dark secrets.  People go to bars for many reasons: for fellowship and spirits, to relax and to dine.  But what about the people who feel an unnatural pull to the bar?  To drinking?  What is their perspective of being in a bar?

For me, it is a positive experience, well… excluding a some of those morning afters.  To me the bar is:  being with friends, laughter, silliness, sharing secrets, crying, hugging, more laughing, sharing feelings, more hugging, “I love you man!”, dancing, good food, and good drink.  Life at its best.

But what about that old man sitting alone at the bar?  Is life at its best for him?  Seeing this man makes me think of my grandpa, my dad’s dad, Grandpa Ducky to us growing up.  He had to be told he wouldn’t see his grandchildren ever again by my aunt in order to stop drinking.  And he did.  It’s strange because I never experienced this drunk grandpa.  He is just told to me in stories.  My cousins tell tales of being taken to the local bar with him after school.  My dad spins humorous stories of when he was a kid and my grandpa trying to light the wrong end of a cigarette.  And today, I sit here and wonder what the bar felt like to my grandpa.  Relief?  Shame?  Peace?  Regret?  All of these, and more, rolled into one in the form of true addiction?

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