Sometimes, Being an Adult Sucks

I imagined leaving work early today. Escaping into the sunshine with a diet coke and a book. Embracing an afternoon sans email, phone and paperwork. It was a visceral longing; I entertained it for a few minutes, then went back to work.

In Supplication...

Dear Sleep,

It has been a long time since we've seen each other. Too long; I feel your loss keenly. I need you in my life. Can we work something out? Will you come back? Please?

Regards,

Stephanie

The Wisdom of Pooh

For a "Bear of very Little Brain," Winnie the Pooh has some good stuff to say:

*It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?"

*Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh," he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw, "I just wanted to be sure of you."

*If the person you are talking to doesn't appear to be listening, be patient. It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.

*Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.

*You can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count.

*Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

*A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference.

*Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering.

*When late morning rolls around and you're feeling a bit out of sorts, don't worry; you're probably just a little eleven o'clockish.

*Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon.

*"Well," said Pooh, "what I like best -- " and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.

*Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you.

*Before beginning a Hunt, it is wise to ask someone what you are looking for before you begin looking for it.

*If you want to make a song more hummy, add a few tiddely poms.

*If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.

*If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together there is something you must always remember: you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think, but the most important thing is, even if we are apart, I'll always be with you.

Thank you, A.A. Milne...

Just so you know,

I will mostly be publishing poems for National Poetry Month to this blog: http://www.psychescandle.blogspot.com/

In case you want to check it out.

A Haiku

To fulfill the needs of National Poetry Month, and to reflect the weather today:

Utah weather sucks.
Snow that's sticking in April?
Really Utah? Blah.

The Most EPIC Poetry Thursday. EVER!

That's because this Poetry Thursday falls on the first day of National Poetry Month! It's my favorite, most geeky time of the year! An entire month dedicated to the wonder of words and the magic of language. Hooray!

I like to post a poem every day during National Poetry Month (it doesn't always work out, but I try). Thus, in honor of both NPM 2010 and Poetry Thursday, a poem:

Where The Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

--Shel Silverstein

I think the "sidewalk ends" in a different way and in a different place for everyone, but I hope we are able to find it; even those of us who are no longer children.

Boys in Books are Better

Like other single women who embrace certain literarian (not a word, but should be) persuasions, I have dreamt of certain types of men. (We can admit that; right, ladies?)

We dream of our own Mr. Darcy, whose stern and haughty demeanor we can change, merely by being ourselves. Our own Mr. Knightly, who will help us, kindly and firmly, to be our best selves. Our own Mr. Rochester, who... no, wait... no; I've never gotten that one, sorry... We want a kind and steady Colonel Brandon, who will love us even when we are impetuous and silly. And while crazy and vengeful Heathcliff is not necessarily a dreamboat, there is something mildly appealing about that much passion. I don't think I'm alone in declaring these men Prince Charming 2.0.

Last night, I was reminded why these fictional men are generally so much more appealing.

I was at a Relief Society function, at the church, in the gym. Around 9, the activity was over, women were starting to clear out, and some of us were working on getting the tables cleared and put away, dealing with the leftover food, and trying to get out of there at a reasonable time. Around 9:15, guys began to arrive, adorned in long, shiny shorts, with basketballs in tow. It was "church ball" time, and we were clearly in their way. As they walked in, I was rolling a large, round table across the gym to put it away. They kindly waited until I moved from under the basket to start "warming up" (read: throwing practice shots), but they sure did let me wrestle that table by myself.

A few minutes later, I came trudging back across the gym, this time carrying a long rectangle table. This time, they didn't bother to stop shooting baskets, and they still didn't offer to help. 15 guys stood there, throwing that damn ball around, watching me wrestle yet another table. The only bright spot for me was the conviction that if I got hit in the head with a basketball, I would be perfectly justified in kicking somebody in the balls.

One guy finally detached himself from the Cro Magnon horde and came to help me with the table (it was longer, by a couple feet, than I am tall...). I'm not sure if he was genuinely trying to help, or if I was just in his way.

After that, we continued to clean up, and they continued to "warm up," although by this point, that included turning around every couple minutes to check our progress. They didn't offer any more help, nor did they try to hide their annoyance that we were "taking so long..."

Seriously, guys? Seriously?

Mr. Darcy would've helped.

Maybe I should've just kicked somebody in the balls anyway.