Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Dear Stranger,

Dear Stranger,

When you saw me today at Wal-Mart, I wasn't looking my best. I realize that my yoga pants are stretched out and splattered with paint from the hallway project. I know yesterday's eyeshadow and mascara, instead of being properly removed from my face, instead gathered under my eyes, giving me a distinctly strung-out visage. I'm aware that my tennis shoes are in desperate need of replacement. For these things, I apologize. My grandmother would be terribly disappointed.

Yes, this is the same grandmother that, on my most recent visit exclaimed, "C's dress is so beautiful! Who'd ever have thought that you took her shopping!" but she's still holding out hope.

However, I would like to point out that my baby looked A-DOR-A-BLE. In her new pink knit dress with the brown polka dots* and matching beanie (beanie baby! heh.) and her little tights with the shoes and all...come on. I totally earned some points there. Nobody looks at me these days anyway.

The thing is, I've learned motherhood is all about priorities. Feed the baby, or go to the bathroom? Christmas shop, or pay the bills? Change the laundry, or look in the mirror? Today, it was a feed the baby, christmas shop and change the laundry day.

Tomorrow? Who knows. Just to be safe though, please judge me by my baby.


*did polka dots really originate with the polka dance somehow? What a strange thought. Or maybe "polka" refers to a place where both the dots and the dance were introduced. Isn't it funny to think that polka dots were once new and original? How funny history is...

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Dear Dreams?

*this an installment in my 30 Day Letter Writing Challenge. This time, I was supposed to write to my dreams.

How am I supposed to write a letter to my dreams? I've been pondering this question for at least two days, and I've yet to come up with any kind of cogent answer. It's hard enough to write a single letter to a plurality, but make that plurality as abstract as "dreams" and you've officially stumped the chump.

I was initially thinking, oh, this will be easy, I just write about my life goals and stuff -- that's what they mean by "dreams." That way I can dodge the whole issue of how weird my dreams are. But as Cinderalla says, "Dreams are a wish your heart makes when you're fast asleep" (again with the singular/plural issue!), so I'm right back where I started.

So two nights ago, I dreamed that I was cutting out pictures from magazines and gluing them to my baby. I was chatting to someone unseen, as I carefully snipped around the picture of a bare treebranch that looked a lot like a snowman's arm. Then, I affixed it to F's face with a gluestick. It was coming off her mouth, not unlike a skinny, crooked cigarette.

Earlier this year I dreamed that P and I were ghostbusters, un-haunting houses from a specific ghost which would eat odd table legs and children's toys. The ghosts lived in the two-by-fours that framed out the drop-down attic access door.

A few months ago I had a dream with a very elaborate plot, several acts and many costume changes. The final scene featured me in the ER waiting room with a terrible stomachache. A young female doctor came out to help me, and promptly cut open my torso (painlessly). After rooting around for a few seconds, she suddenly discovered the source of the problem: a baby alligator about two feet long. She pulled it out, then stuffed me full of dirty dishes, and sewed me back up again. It wasn't until I was standing in front a mirror admiring my new figure (oddly reminiscent of an overstuffed garbage back, with angles and points jutting out here and there around the dirty dishes) that I woke up.

It is with these in mind that I compose the following:

Dear Dreams,

Don't get a big head, alright? You are not exactly what I would call "a wish my heart makes" and I don't have any desire for you to come around during daylight hours. That said, thanks for being there. If dreams are the stuff of inspiration, I surely have something unique ahead of me.