Nothing is glued down. I keep rearranging collage pieces to go with the prompt: Stable.
I’d say that this is an unstable stable.
Salty like hot dogs (and tears). Sweet like marmalade (and life).
Nothing is glued down. I keep rearranging collage pieces to go with the prompt: Stable.
I’d say that this is an unstable stable.
R. M. Ducks?
Yes M. R. Ducks.
(whole poem: here)
The murmur of their disgruntled grumbling precedes their flight.
quackwackrackrackrackarackrackwackarackwackwackrack
M. R. Ducksandgeese
That’s the prompt — the last thing I emptied.
Well, it wasn’t the plastic container under the kitchen sink, although I’ve been emptying it fairly often.
The kitchen sink has been dripping. I watched a Youtube video on how to fix it and bought the parts I needed. I was almost successful, but needed a little help.
But then it got worse.
A lot worse.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Now I turn the water off completely to the sink when I don’t need to use it. When I do need it, I turn it on and hear the dripping.
When I turn it off again, I empty the container.
[sigh]
My two youngest daughters were home on spring break this week. I hardly saw them, though. Full-time job, you know, plus I had something every day after work:
I still fit in several walks with one daughter.
I made some favorite dinners: baked ziti, broccoli cavatelli, and a chili-like dish called Turkey Taco Quinoa Skillet.
When I was making that last one, I found that I had run out of quinoa. I told the girls that I was doing a slight variation on that dish.
“What are you doing?” one asked.
“Skipping the quinoa,” I replied. I threw in handful of barley and hoped for the best. It was fine.
This morning, I said good-bye to one daughter who was driving herself back to school. Then I drove the other daughter to stay with her oldest sister before she flies back to college tomorrow. It was another long day for me.
The last thing I’ve emptied is me. My energy is gone.
I tip my hat to all you working women who for years and years have been working 40 hours a week outside the home. I’ve been a mostly stay-at-home mom. I know, I know — that’s work, too.
There’s something to be said, though, about getting up and dressed in the morning, and leaving the house every day.
There’s something to be said for working 8-9 hours away from home.
There’s something to be said for coming home to a dripping faucet.
On Friday when I got home, my daughters said, “The microwave is broken.” Sure enough, it wasn’t working.
I looked to see if the GFI had tripped on the outlet for the microwave. No GFI on that outlet.
I went to the basement to look at the breaker box. Everything looked okay. I flipped some switches back and forth, hoping that would do the trick. It didn’t.
I called the electrician.
Mind you, the last time I had called him it was because of a flickering light. I live in an old farm house and was sure something had nibbled the wires. He changed the lightbulb and solved the problem. He explained to me the likely cause for the flickering. I was embarrassed.
You can understand why I was reluctant to call, but I did. Our wi-fi was also on the same circuit as the microwave.
“Hi, this is Sally,” I said to his voicemail. After leaving him my phone number and address, I continued, “I don’t need you to change a light bulb today, but I’ve lost electricity to some things in my house –”
He picked up and cut me off. “I’m going to tell you what to do and I want you to follow these instructions. If it doesn’t work, you can call me back and I’ll come tomorrow.” He gave me some specific instructions and told me to call him back either way.
Suffice it to say, it worked. The microwave worked. The wifi worked. Everything worked.
I called the electrician back.
“Good job,” he said. “I’ll be sending your Junior Electrician certificate in the mail.”
“You really need to send me a bill,” I said. He wouldn’t let me pay him when he changed the lightbulb either.
He laughed. “No, I’m glad you got it. Call me, though, if you have more problems.”
I guess I’m really not empty. I’m full — with family and kind people in my life.
Do you think the plumber will be this nice if I call him?
I found this photograph of my great-great-grandparents.
Is it great, or what?!
It makes me laugh and also want to suck a lemon.
What do laundry, whack-a-mole, and posting-every-day have in common?
They never end. There’s always clothes to wash, moles to whack, posts to write.
If you hear a voice within you say, ‘You cannot paint,’ then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced.
VanGogh
Do you notice anything about the middle window on the bottom?
That’s where the door used to be.
Buildings can bear scars, too.
When is it right to be vulnerable?
When is it right to guard yourself?
Is there an answer to this?
Such a quandary!
Bluey and Bingo
Learn their lingo
Keepy Uppy’s
A game for puppies
Chattermax owl:
A creepy fowl
Currency: Dollar-bucks
Exchange rate really sucks
There was an occasional blogger
Who was something of a slogger
She decided to see
If she could go A-to-Z
Using finish-my-limerick fodder
It looks like I missed the Theme Reveal for the A-to-Z Challenge. I read March 12-18 as INCLUDING March 18 — which is today. When I went to the site though, it said that the theme reveal was closed.
I’m learning to take these things in stride.
Seriously, does it really matter? Does anyone really care what my theme is?
The older I get, the more I realize how few things there are that really matter.
The self-portrait exercise (from my Lenten devotional) was meant to force an eye to the basics, to the things that really matter. My 15-second self-portrait could have been drawn by any child who recognizes those basics: eyes, nose, mouth, hair.
In my room, I often stare at the row of portraits that my parents had done of their five children. The boys are all looking off to the right. My sister and I are looking at the artist. Mine is the only one with a tilt to the head.
I do that still — tilt my head. When I realize it, I upright it. I like to think, though, that the head tilt is a listening posture. Listening, and trying to understand. I do that, too.
The Stream of Consciousness Saturday word is “tape.” In my room, I often also stare at the many things I have taped here and there. On the back of the door. On the wall. I even have something taped on a piece of artwork to cover a place it’s damaged and to remind of a poem that the picture brings to mind.
Tape is a handy-dandy thing.
Back to my theme-reveal. I realized that limericks neatly fit the 23 word limit I’ve given myself most days. Especially if I let YOU finish it. Also, there’s no ache in writing a limerick. They’re light and silly. I have enough struggles in my days that I thought, maybe a month of silly — with an occasional collage thrown in — would be fun.
So starting April 1, I’ll post the first four lines of a limerick, and you can tape your answer on to finish it. The A-to-Z part will be the name of the person in the limerick. For example, “A” might begin “There once was a man named Arnold” — but I can’t really think of anything that rhymes with Arnold, can you?
And even though I missed the theme reveal, I’m revealing it today, because, you know, it doesn’t really matter. Right?
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