Tired

I’m tired. I’m not, really, but it’s much more acceptable to say you’re tired than to say that you’re angry and upset and you don’t know why.

I’m tired. I’m not, not really, but it’s so much easier to say you’re tired than to say that you’re feeling prickly and sharp and you don’t know why.

I’m tired. I’m not supposed to be, because I got almost seven hours of sleep last night. But my goal is eight or nine, and the seven hours I got weren’t good. I can’t remember the last time I woke up feeling refreshed.

I’m tired. I’m not, really, but it’s much safer to say you’re tired than to say that you’re feeling jagged and raw and you don’t want to talk about it because you can’t handle hearing, “Suck it up, buttercup,” or, “Figure it out and get over it,” one more time.

I am running on empty, and I’m tired of it.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

World War IV

A piece of brick caught my eye as I hunkered down in the ruins of the ancient capital.

“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.” -Albert Einstein

I snorted as I picked up my bow and nocked an arrow. I didn’t know who this Einstein guy was, but he hadn’t been far off.

I froze as an arrow whizzed by, narrowly missing my ear. The world was a lot smaller now, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t fight to the death to save what was left.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Edible improv?

We’ve been in a food rut lately, so the other night we decided to improvise an old favorite. Cheeseburger pie is one of my – and my family’s – favorite recipes, yet we hadn’t had it in a very long time, probably because it takes somewhat longer than Hamburger Helper, another family favorite.

The way I fix it is already an improvisation of the original recipe, which comes from the cookbook created by my seventh grade class some twenty years ago (Thanks, Mrs. Dunham!) as part of a semester-long enrichment class. The original recipe calls for a flour crust but, try as I might, I was never able to get the crust to come out well. Instead of being tasty and delicious, it was always solid as a rock and just about as flavorful, so I switched to using a Peter Pan pizza crust mix (which is probably literally the same as just making a flour crust, except for the part where it turns out to be edible when I fix it). I also add way more cheese than the recipe calls for, because there’s nothing better than a great big cheesy cheeseburger, am I right?

Of course I’m right. 😀

The original recipe:

Burial

I bury things.

When I was little, I was obsessed with finding buried treasure. Even though I live in a landlocked state and grew up a good forty minutes by car from the nearest large river, I was certain that a trove of pirate treasure lay buried beneath the sidewalk mere blocks from home. After all, there were bootprints in the concrete. What better way to mark the spot than with bootprints that ordinary passersby would take for some construction worker’s careless mistake?

I loved time capsules back then, too. They were my own variation of buried pirate’s treasure. I’m fairly certain that, somewhere in my old backyard, maybe a foot or so down (because I’d have been too tired to dig any further), there lies a tin or ten of memories. And if my dad still lived in the house I grew up in, it would be a lot of fun to go digging things up back there, just to see what I could find. To see what I’ve forgotten.

But he doesn’t.

I buried him, too. Because along with things, I bury people.

I remember when I was five and my grandfather died. My parents drove the two hours (give or take) to my dad’s hometown to attend the funeral, but left my sister and me at home because we were so little. I was furious. We hadn’t known the man – he and my dad were not close – but in my five-year-old mind, that didn’t matter. I should have been there.

There once existed a picture of my grandfather pushing me in a stroller, though. Or maybe that was my uncle, and the picture exists only in my mind because I loved it when my dad would tell me the story about my uncle pushing me in the stroller.

I buried a niece, too. I was seven then. I cried and cried and cried when she slipped softly into a better realm. I buried a schoolmate, a great-grandmother, a friend’s little brother. I buried friendships and relationships and my mother.

I buried them with resignation and heartache and immense, unfathomable grief. I buried them with soil and flowers and kind words, the sort that reassure those who hear them. Because I bury words and feelings, too.

I bury words, way down deep, till they come surging forth, angry waves upon the shore. I shove them down, bottle them up, try to keep them contained. I bury feelings deeper still, till they come seeping out, magma leaking through my cracks. I bury words unsaid next to the words I’ve said, but they tend to bubble up within me. Their memory burns me, so I bury them deeper, so far down that I forget their existence.

That is, until I can’t. Because eventually, those words and those feelings that I thought were buried come shooting back to the surface, fireworks in a dark sky, lighting the way to a different place. A better place. A place of new beginnings.

You see, I also bury seeds. I bury them without looking, sometimes without knowing. The things I bury in pain or in anger sometimes become seeds of hope with a little time and patience. Hope is a powerful thing; it cannot be contained. No matter how dark the night, the sun always rises, and hope with it.

What things do you bury?

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Yet more inspirational quotes

Today’s quote is from Momzen Mutterings, and is really rather fabulous:

momzen

I love this way of thinking about things. My brain hides things from me all the time – story ideas, doctor appointments, the shirt I laid out on the bed five minutes ago – so why should a gift or a talent be any different?

Like the old saying goes, use it or lose it. I didn’t use all that Spanish I learned once upon a time, and now I’ve lost it. It turns out that my brain hid that from me, too, because as soon as I started studying it again? It came back to me. It’s like pulling teeth sometimes trying to remember how to, say, conjugate a stem-changing verb, but eventually I remember.

What about you – have you lost something you didn’t use often? Did it come back to you?

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Scenes from Casa Kauffman

Me, after a trip to the dentist: It’s been a rough day. I have a cavity.

Seymour: *sadface* Do you need a hug?

Me: As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve never had a cavity before.

Seymour: It’ll be okay.

Me: But I was very proud of my no-cavity streak.

Seymour: Look at it this way – after having a cesarean, getting a filling will be child’s play.

Miss Tadpole: Dad, that pun is a bit childish, don’t you think?

Me: I love my family.

Have you ever had a cavity? What’s the lobgest you’ve gone without one?

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.