Poetic Math

Just a quickie post today.  One of the math teachers I work with was in stitches over this, I thought you might like it too!  And yes, I did finally understand it.... once I read through the entire explanation twice.  I do not "math" very well.



https://www.pinterest.com/pin/216454325821240980/

A Quick Monday Pick Me Up

And boy, do I mean quick!  I'm responding to a visual writing prompt with my own version of the six word memoir.  Here's the quick background: Hemingway was famously challenged to write a story using just six words.  The famous six words? "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."  I know, right?

I chose to put a more comical spin on it.

"Multiple Warnings Apply; See Attached Booklet"

What would YOUR warning label say?  Could you fit it into six words?  Less?  

My first public reading!!

Last night I participated in my first public reading, and it was great!  It was a flash fiction reading planned by a former classmate of mine who is active in the local literary scene, running an organization or two.  The possum trauma I posted about earlier got fictionalized, shortened, and it was finally ready for the reading.

The event organizer pulled names from a hat to determine the order of readers, and lucky me, I got second to last.  Plenty of time for my nerves to do their little dance around my body.  But, when my time came, my voice carried through the room, the audience laughed at the right times, and they applauded at the end.

I may be able to get my hands on a video/audio recording in the future, but for now, here's my truncated version, which I titled  "The Trashcan is Alive."

Sometimes taking out the trash can be terrifying for me.  Rolling down the bumpy alley along the side of the house makes the trash can lid settle, pushing air out of the trashcan onto my hand, and it feels like something is breathing on my hand from inside the trashcan.  It’s a creepy feeling, but it’s all in my head, right?

Wrong.

I have good reason to fear the discovery of unfriendly living creatures in my refuse.  Why?  Simple: because it’s happened before.

I live alone with my kids, and I hold my own, most of the time.  There was one major exception a few years ago: I was home alone in the afternoon cleaning up from my dinner preparations before leaving to pick up the kids from daycare.  I had a recyclable container, so I did what I always do: rinsed it out, opened the back door, leaned out, and tossed it into the near by recycling bin.  Until that container reached the bin, all was well.  Then it landed, and the recycling bin hissed at me.

Ho.ly.crap.

Recovering my composure after doing an impressive Nosferatu impression, I leaned over to glance inside the bin, thinking I was prepared for anything.  I am still in disbelief at what was inside.  A possum. 

“But wait,” you’re about to ask me, “Don’t opossums ‘play opossum’ when they feel threatened?”  That question entered my mind as well, but I had clear evidence that this is not a hard and fast rule for the species.  This bugger was pissed.  It was ready to fight for its right to go through my refuse…  In the middle of the day, I realized.  And yes, before you ask, possums are nocturnal.  Now we’re all thinking the same thing: rabid possum, yay!  Right.

At this point, I closed the door and assessed the situation as I finished things up inside.  I was on my own, and there was a possibly rabid opossum stationed a foot away from the door that I usually use when returning home with my two small children.  Great.

Thank goodness my dad worked nearby! I called him at work, gave him the extremely abridged version of my situation, and asked if he could stop by on his way home to see if he could help.  I might also have mentioned exactly where I kept my shovel, as well as which part of the garden needed fertilized.  He said he’d attempt to do what he could, and I used the front door to leave.

I picked up my kids, and when I returned my dad was leaving.  He handed me the freshly washed shovel and told me that my recycling bin was possum free and that the back corner of the garden probably wouldn’t need fertilizer for a while.

But, if you’re ever driving by my house after dark on a Monday night and see me running down the alley like a lame gazelle, please don’t worry or call in the men in white coats, I’m just having an opossum flashback.  It will pass.

Something Old, Something New...

...But nothing borrowed or blue!  Maybe another time.  First up is short and sad, like the life it mourns.  My aunt gave birth to premature twins when I was in junior high.  There was a boy and a girl, but only the girl survived.  This poem was part of my mourning process.

Open wounds, broken hearts
Already ending, before it starts
Wracking sobs, crying eyes
A plan to meet quickly dies
Comfort from family and a friend
Another life comes to an end
Would-be belongings being sold
A life story that won't be told
Given a chance, it was taken away
Won't see tomorrow, nor today
Tired loved ones seeking closure
It finally comes, and now it's over.


The next note is much less depressing but not quite happy, either.  It came from all of those witty, sarcastic housewife memes floating around Pinterest.  I wrote it a few weeks ago, so it's not hot off the presses, but it's recent.

"Housewife's Secret to Clean Dishes"

I washed the dishes
with my pain,

And scrubbed the pots
with my rage;

Dried them all
with my disappointment,

And put them away
with my frustration.

It certainly wasn't
the best way to clean...

But wow, was it fast!

Go Ahead, Laugh at My Trauma. It's Okay.

Sometimes taking out the trash can be terrifying.  Our large trashcan is wheeled, and I roll it out the bumpy alley to our front corner the night before trash day.  It’s got a hinged top, which is convenient, but occasionally makes me geek out a little, because some of those bumps make the lid settle down some more, and it pushes air out of the trashcan onto my hand, and it feels like something is breathing on my hand from inside the trashcan.  It’s a creepy feeling, but it’s all in my head, right?

Wrong.

I have good reason to fear the discovery of living creatures in our refuse.  I have good reason to fear the discovery of unfriendly living creatures in our refuse.  Why?  Simple: it’s happened before.

My husband is gone for 24 hours once every four days working as a firefighter.  Those twenty-four hours tend to be the time frame within which all hell breaks loose in our household.  On one of his work days about two years ago, I was home alone in the afternoon cleaning up from my dinner prep before leaving to pick up the kids from daycare.  I had finished up something in a recyclable container, so I did what I always do: rinsed it out, opened the back door, leaned out, and tossed it into the recycling bin about 1 foot from the door.  Until the container reached the bin, all was well.  When the container landed, the recycling bin hissed at me.  It hissed!

Ho.ly.crap.

Recovering my composure (but not my dignity) after doing an incredible Nosferatu impression, I leaned over to glance inside the bin, ready to jump back inside and slam the door shut if anything came out at me.  I am still in disbelief at what was inside.  An opossum. 

“But wait, Dani,” you’re asking me, “Don’t opossums ‘play opossum’ when they feel threatened?”  That question entered my mind as well, but I had loud, distinct evidence that this is not a hard and fast rule for the species.  This bugger was pissed.  It was so angry that it refused to amble off in disgust muttering under its breath.  No, this thing was ready to fight for its right to go through our refuse... in the middle of the day, I realized.  And yes, before you ask, opossums are nocturnal.  Now we’re all thinking the same thing: rabid opossum, yay!  Right.

At this point, I closed the door and assessed the situation as I finished things up inside.  My husband was away, and there was a possibly rabid opossum stationed a foot away from the back door.  I park behind the house. I use that door when returning home with our children, who were one and three years old at the time.  Crap.

Dad to the rescue!  My dad works about 5 minutes from our house, and the end of his workday happened to be during the time I’d be out of the house to pick up the kids.  So I called him at work, gave him the extremely abridged version of my situation, and asked if he could stop by on his way home to see if he could (safely) help.  I may have mentioned exactly where we keep our shovel as well.  He said he’d attempt to do what he could, but advised me to use the front door when I brought the kids home just in case.  I also went out he front door and walked all the way around the house to get to my my car in order to avoid another one-on-one confrontation with the little devil.

We returned home to an opossum-free recycling bin, and the news that no shovel had been required.  The window well of the empty house next door had a new resident, though he didn’t last there very long.  I didn’t mind, as he was such a grumpy neighbor.

So, if you’re ever driving by my house after dark on a Monday night and see me running back the alley like a lame gazelle, please don’t worry or call in the men in white coats, I’m just having an opossum flashback.  It will pass.