Bad Haiku Wednesday

Do you know haiku? It is poetry that I learned in grade school. While scholars and haiku purists would disagree with what I am calling haiku, I am doing it as I was taught. Namely writing a short poem that consists of three lines that follow this pattern: 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the second, and five in the third. Usually, haiku has to do with nature. And for a simple type of poem, they are sort of difficult to do well. But, because I am neither a scholar nor a haiku purist (rather, a haiku butcher) here at Que Sara Sara, I make haiku about whatever I want and it doesn't even have to be good! And trust me, it's bad, folks. Real bad. But that's where the fun is.

She naps on the rug.

Softly she rises and leaves.

Her fart stays behind.

The noodles are small.

Neon orange, powdery cheese.

Blue box is tasty!

(I might have taken liberties there. Depends on if you say "orange" with one or two syllables. You know "ornj" or "orunj.")

I squish when I walk.

Weather pattern is stagnant.

Liquid sunshine? Hmph.

Felt bad saying "no."

But had other plans today.

Guilt is for suckers.

The news guy is bad.

His metaphors make me cry.

Someone please fire him.

How long could they go

without cleaning their bathroom?

I don't want to know.

This is addictive.

Haiku is really not hard.

Just hard to do well.

Okay now your turn.

Write some haiku here with me.

Post in the comments.

See what I did there?

I wrote a haiku that begs.

Please don't disappoint. Me.

Oops. Too many syllables. Whatever. Come on, get your bad haiku on. Leave me some in the comments. It will make my day. And seriously, it might make yours too. Writing bad haiku is therapeutic. Or something. Just do it. It'll be fun!

Christ Is Risen! Gimme Some Candy!

My nephew had his first Easter hunting for eggs. He found his first one, sat down, opened it, and was no longer interested in searching for any others.

This boy. This boy is so sweet I could eat him with a spoon.

Hunting eggs.

Sometimes you have to ask for help. Sometimes your giant cousin will make you say "please." That's just how the world works.

Much like we enjoy celebrating our country's independence by blowing thangs up, we like to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord and Savior by beating the tar out of a pinata.

His fingers got pinched by his overzealous daddy while trying to hit the pinata. Believe me when I say that there were no less than 6 different people immediately rushing to comfort him.

It's Easter! Our time of Lenten sacrifice is over. Now outta my way so I can get to the sweets!! (Seriously. They had a count down.) I took to saying "Christos anesti! Now gimme some candy!" I don't know, that little saying might have some sticking power.

My beauties on Easter morn. I had no idea that they were all color coordinated. Now I wish that a better photographer had taken their picture. And that maybe I had been in it. Alas, that is what happens when you are the family photographer. My children will have a hard time finding photos of me someday.

I hope your Easter was joyful and filled with things that reminded you of how deeply you are loved.

It's Friday, But Sunday's Comin'!

Easter says you can put truth in the grave, but it won't stay there.

Sittin' Pretty

Hey! I still have my fingers! I am not typing this with my nose! And apparently I still know how to use exclamation points!

Okay. So. The chair is done. (!) ( I had to use one more there because that statement deserved one.) It's not perfect and if you look too closely at it, you will know that it was done by a complete amateur who had no earthly idea what she was doing. So, you know, don't look too closely. Heh. Even if you are looking closely, the finished chair looks--and smells--better than the chair I came home with from Goodwill.

Eventually it will go in the sitting area in my master bedroom. We have a sitting area. It's just right now, you can't really sit there because there's an ironing board, several boxes of my beloved's crap important stuff, and an empty unused file cabinet in the way. (Three guesses who the file cabinet belongs to. And the first two guesses don't count...) But! Someday I will have a sitting area there. It will also have my own desk by the window overlooking our back yard. I will sit there and ignore my children bury my nose in a book that I can't put down. (Speaking of books that cannot be put down, have you read "Room"? If not, hie thee to your nearest book procuring place and get it. It is unputdownable.I don't care what spell check says, that is totally a word.)

Enough talky stuff. Here are pictures. Yay! Lookie, lookie!

Before: Stinky, blue "velvet."

After: Good smelling and mildly distressed. (You would never think those two things would go together, but they do!)

I went with a distressed finish because I wanted a look that would fit into the bright, airy, blue/white/beachy bedroom that I will someday have. My children all told me that they thought the chair looked good but they asked me when I was going to finish it. When I told them it was done, they pointed out the "bare and scratchy spots." My children don't know from distressed finishes. Whatevs. Also, the fabric I had chosen didn't look right to me, but I got a great deal on it and didn't want to find different fabric. So I just used the "back side" of the fabric. I like it much better. That's right. The side you are supposed to see and sit on is facing the inside. Look at me! I'm a rebel!

I am happy. Now I just have to clear out my sitting area so that I can put my chair there and actually sit there. But that's a project for another day. My fingers are still recovering.

It Could Be Beautiful. Or I Could Lose My Fingers. Time Will Tell.

Hubris or hope? Courageous or crazy? Frugal or folly? In for a treat or in over my head? These are all the things that went through my mind when I picked up this chair at Goodwill last week and decided to fix it up.

I have always had reservations about buying upholstered pieces from someplace like Goodwill, but after giving the chair a sniff test (You should be thanking providence that there is no such thing as "smellovision" right now. Just sayin'.) I knew that I would be replacing all the material, foam included, so I gave it a shot.

I am halfway through the project right now. Which basically means that I've rid the chair of its old smelly fabric and foam, pulled a thousand and one staples, and done bodily injury to myself. Because you know that a job worth doing is worth doing well and sacrificing your fingers is just part of the deal. At least that's my story.

Hopefully today I will head out to find foam and fabric and look for an electric staple gun so that I may not totally lose my ability to play piano. Not that I ever played well, but I have found that it's helpful to retain your fingers to play more than "Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater."

I'll keep you posted and either way, win, lose, or lose my fingers, I'll show you how the chair comes out. What can I say? I keep telling you people that I'm a giver. You should totally believe me by now.

Say What?

Scene: An elevator in a hotel. My four children and I get on an empty elevator. We are in our swimsuits and headed down to the pool. At the last second, a man gets on the elevator. My family scoots together in a corner to give the man his personal space bubble. It is silent.

Mary: (in a stage whisper that she thinks is a whisper whisper) Well. This is awkward.

Yeah. It was after that.

****************

Scene: My family is seated around a table in a restaurant. We have just finished looking over the dessert menu. This is thrilling for my children. It is a novel experience. They have made up their minds. Both Mary and Sean choose the same dessert. It is basically a chocolate layer cake, but it's got a made up name that is long. Mary is repeating the name over and over because she can't remember it, but she keeps repeating it wrong. Finally the waiter arrives to take our order. He begins with Sean on the opposite side of the table and goes around the table taking our orders. Mary is last. I see the look of panic on her face as the waiter looks at her, pen poised over his tablet. There is a moment of silence as she tries to remember the name of what she wants.

Mary: Ummm....(panicky eyes) Uhhh....(pointing at Sean) I'll have what he's having!

Me: Snnnqqqubbbttt! (Again, the sound of simultaneously doing a spit take and swallowing my tongue.)

**************

Scene: Mary and I are at Target picking up a few things. We are near the toy section and she sees the large, inflated, bouncy balls.

Mary: Oooohh! Bouncy Balls!!

Me: Mmmmhhmmm...

Mary: I love balls! I really love big balls! They're so fun and squishy! I love them so much I want to marry them. (In a high, squeaky, loud, silly voice) I'm gonna marry big balls! I love big balls!

Me: (Speeding the cart quickly to another part of the store.) Hey! Sing about your love for something else, please. Like music or puppies. Or Jesus! Yes. Sing me a song about Jesus!

Yeah. I'm pretty sure that I can never go back there.

I Went On Vacation And All I Got Was This Blotchy Spray Tan: The Picture Edition

This sign spoke to me. I wonder if Newport would sell me one. I would totally hang it next to our family crest. Um, if we actually had a family crest.

This sign also spoke to me. Mmmmm...

James to Mary: That better be the only pole I ever see you on, young lady. Me: Snggqubbtttt! (That's the sound you make when simultaneously doing a spit take and choking on your tongue.)

Hey! Front wheels in Kentucky and back wheels in Ohio! And now, front wheels in Ohio and back wheels in Kentucky! Wheeeeeee!

Not really sure why Mary has the crazy eye. Except maybe Sharks! Lots! And lots! Of Sharks!

He weighs as much as a juvenile shark ray. Anyone know someplace that has shark ray wrestling? Because my money's on the kid with the curly hair.

Her feet hurt. He offered to give her a piggy back ride. I have socked this picture away in my memory. It will come in handy in the future when I feel like dipping him in ketchup and eating him.

What? Don't you take random pictures outside of restaurants with you Spanish vocabulary? Also, Perky Bear Pancakes! Yay!

There was screaming. I said, "Act crazy." He tried to lick her. Must teach boy-child difference between 'crazy' and 'gross.'

I Went On Vacation And All I Got Was This Blotchy Spray Tan

My children have informed me that simply everyone went to Florida over spring break--which was last week for us. No matter how many times I tried to tell them that this could not be true because: a. all of our neighbors were here, and b. if everyone was in Florida, why was Target still so crowded?

This was met with four separate versions of heavy sighing and dramatic eye rolling.

We did not go to Florida. Because we are mean. And annoying. And insert your own childish opinion here.

Also, we thought it might be nice to be able to pay our taxes and not have to spend the summer in jail.

My children thought this was like, soooo stupid.

My children are not afraid of jail. My children dare you, Uncle Sam, to come tell them that they have to pay you. And just who is F.I.C.A., anyway?

I am afraid of jail. I know that I fantasize sometimes about how awesome jail would be--no cooking, no laundry, lots of hours to lay in bed and read--and believe me, all their caterwauling had me fantasizing up a storm--but truth be told, I don't really want to go to there.

So we went to Ohio instead.

There was swimming in an indoor/outdoor pool. This was only for the brave-hearted. After all, it is April and we were only as far south as Cincinnati. There was eating at restaurants. Once even with dessert after! Mary was delighted. She had never ordered dessert at a restaurant before. (Poor child. She is culturally deprived. I just found out today that we have never taken her to play putt-putt golf. We are philistines.) There was the Cincinnati Zoo. It was there that we found our group in 100% agreement: bear pee stinks. There was the Newport Aquarium. The verdict? Sharks, good! Octopus, gross! There was time by the Ohio river where my boys tested my nerves by inching much too close to the water. There was the "stalking of" and "being stalked by" cute boys at the pool. Also there might have been some discussion of our awesome spray tans and their random blotchiness. Oooh! Attractive! There was a grand argument over the foldout couch--by leaps and bounds the least comfortable bed I've ever slept in. After the first night, my beloved and I told our children that one "lucky" pair was going to get to give up their queen bed and sleep on the foldout couch. Can I just tell you that if I hadn't been so annoyed, I might have actually found the fact that my children argued over this medieval torture device humorous? There was pizza! Mmm... LaRosa's! And finally, there was a short trip through IKEA. (No, really kids! It'll be fun! You can pretend to live in these little displays. We might even come out with one less kid!)

There was also taking Maggie's picture at random places with her Spanish vocabulary list so that she could make a book of our trip in Spanish for extra credit when we got home. (She seriously needed to earn pesetas so that she could retake a test that she "didn't really, like, um, do so well on.") And there was the playing of The Alphabet Game every time we were in the car. We are seriously cutthroat in that game. Playing it with us is not recommended for children under three, pregnant women, or people with heart conditions.

Okay. So it wasn't Florida. But we spent two days away from home and when we got back, we all were in agreement again that we had had a good time.

That is until my kids went to school and saw the tans of everybody that went to Florida.

Lesson Learned

You know the slogan "Friends don't let friends drive drunk"? Well, I have adopted an adaptation of this slogan for myself: "Mothers don't let your 14 year old daughters talk you into a spray tan."

I blame the teenage attendant who showed us what we were supposed to do. Or perhaps my own pride because I refused to act like I didn't know what I was doing. Fake it 'till you make it and all that, right? But you see, she was talking like, rillyrillyfastyaknow? And she said 'you should use this lotion to cover your nails and cuticles, palms, ankles, elbows and knees. You don't need to slather it on.' Or at least that's what my 43 year old ears heard. And I, in all my maturity and know-it-all-ness went on my merry way.

Now, I'm pretty sure that I put that word "don't" in there myself. Because, um, I didn't slather. And now my thumbs and forefingers look like they have been bathing in nicotine. Like I have been a 30 pack a day smoker since fetushood. My palms look like they overdosed on beta carotene.

The rest of me looks okay. Actually, my legs look pretty good and I won't be embarrassed to run in shorts. Well, okay, I'll still be embarrassed to run in shorts, but at least my legs won't look so pasty.

But my hands? No worries. It's totally cool. Because it's not like anyone will see them. Right?

Ahem.