This Full House Archive

Tag: write of passage

  • Writing Challenge #8: Plot – Let Sleeping Kids AND Their Perceptual Parents, Lie

    Write of passage

    This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger.  Today’s challenge was to write a post with a clear plot – the point in which you are trying to make (I know, good luck with that one, right?)

    ——————————————————————-

    Napalooza

    It’s Napalooza at Mama’s house (stupid camera!)

    Yesterday, my husband Garth [not his real name] and I made plans to take the kids to visit with my parents, who are both dealing with difficult health issues at the moment, for a turkey dinner.

    What?  I clean.  My mother cooks when she’s frustrated and, well, seeing as the kids haven’t had a decent meal since I started working, who am I to argue, right?

    “I’ll bring the green bean casserole!”

    Seeing as, I am NOT a total shitehead, either, I also offered to cook the turkey, too!

    “No…nuh-uh…that’s okay.”

    Apparently, the kids have been talking with my mother…about me…too.

    “So, how are you guys…”

    Aaaand, the flood gates opened.

    “Your father probably needs a pacemaker and those 3 knee replacements I had, didn’t work!”

    Apparently, my parents had 2 emergency medical visits, last week and, NO, they didn’t call me.

    “We didn’t want to worry you!”

    So, of course, by Sunday morning, I was VERY worried!

    “I don’t care if you ARE still naked!”

    Aaaand, annoyed — because, when taking showers, some kids have to be reminded to, you know, actually GET IN THE SHOWER!

    “WE ARE LEAVING IN 5 MINUTES!!!”

    Long story, short (you’re welcome!) as much as the kids ADORE my parents (me, too) and love visiting with them (sort of) it is never an easy trip.

    “Move your seat up…I’m squished…move over…I…can’t…breathe!!!”

    In fact, just getting in the car is enough to drive a sane person to, you know, walk the 44 miles.

    “ENOUGH!!!”

    When it comes to head-spinning, Linda Blair has got nothin’ on me!

    “Next person who speaks, gets grounded for a week!”

    Long story, short [don’t mention it] you coulda cut the tension with a spoon and, well, at this point, my husband and I weren’t speaking, to each other, either.

    “What’s wrong?”

    I don’t know what it is.

    “C’mon, tell me.”

    Ever since I was little, I could NEVER lie to my mother.

    “Nothing, really!”

    Until, at least, around dessert time.

    “I don’t…[sniff]…know…[snort]…what to do!“

    What?  Some people go to therapy.  Hungarians cry.  Right into our desserts.

    “I know, me either!”

    So, we allowed the flood gates to open, once more — we sat, we talked, we cried, we hugged, got over the fact that, you know, sometimes life just has to happen and there was peace in the dining room, once more!

    Until.

    Napalooza 2 

    Napalooza 2

    It was time to wake the kids.

    “I don’t WANNA go home!”

    Really, can you blame them?

    “There’s always President’s weekend!”

    Aaand, I bet that YOU don’t even have to guess real hard how my mother knew that the kids would be off…and willing to sleep over…that weekend…TOO.

    Other folks participating, today:

    Write on!

    [Click here to view past Writing Challenges]

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    © 2010 This Full House – All Rights Reserved.

  • Writing Challenge #5: The Job – I Don’t Do Ironing

    Write of passage

    This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger.  Today’s challenge was to write about your first "real" job.

    ——————————————————————-

    My twin brother left very early in the morning, to begin his basic training in Louisiana (I think) and I, however, was already running late.

    "Did you remember to iron your father a shirt?"

    I shook my head and reached for my mother's can of Aqua Net.

    "Well, don't forget…"

    I kissed my mother's cheek and pretended not to notice it was wet, or that she tasted slightly salty.  She slowly put on her rings, wiped around her eyes with her finger, one last time and then finally slipped her watch around her wrist.

    "Have a good day."

    She smiled, awkwardly. 

    "You, too."

    I unplugged the curling iron, closed my eyes, held my breath and
    sprayed like there was no tomorrow, fully knowing that it would take at
    least 3 shampoos to get it all out again, the next day, anyway.

    [cough-cough]

    I leaned out the bathroom door, sticky hairspray can in hand, inhaled deeply, and realized that I had once again, burned my toast.

    "Dammit!"

    I squinted at the kitchen clock, its face stained to a pale yellow from years of sitting over pan steak and fried chicken, and saw that I was now, going to be very late.

    "Where are my damn cigarettes?"

    I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to not notice my father's terribly blood-shot eyes.

    "Dunno, but I'll have your shirt ironed in a minute, okay?"

    He quickly turned his back before answering me.

    "What time do you have to be at work, again?"

    I told him not to worry about it, but he'd already closed the bathroom door, causing the clock on the wall to shake, as if I needed anymore reminding.

    "…I'll be fine."

    I turned and hurried into my room, knocked my right hip into the microwave cart and nearly sent the Pillsbury Dough Boy cookie jar sailing.

    "Eight-thirty!?!?"

    My mother left the ironing board next to my bed (thankfully) with the iron turned on and I pretended not to see the large pile of used tissues lying on my dresser.

    I began to iron the collar, sleeves, shoulders, and sides, carefully coating each section with a fine mist of spray starch and finally finishing with the back of my father's work shirt — newly washed and steamed to a crisp white and smelling slightly of lavender.

    "See you, daddy."

    I kissed my father's cheek, pointed at his shirt on my bed and pretended not to notice that he'd forgotten, or deliberately neglected, to shave.

    "What time are you coming home?"

    I grabbed my purse from the kitchen chair and turned to answer him, but he'd already closed my bedroom door.

    "I love you, daddy."

    However late, I may be.

    [Note: Although, I get how it wasn't the best of mornings, for ANY of us, my new boss, the president of a chemical company, was a little less good-natured about it, at the time and 7 years later, the first words to my future husband were, "I DON'T DO IRONING!"]

    Other folks participating, today:

    Write on!

    [Click here to view past Writing Challenges]

    Liz@thisfullhouse signature

    © 2010 This Full House - All Rights Reserved.

  • Writing Challenge #4: The Resolution – I #fail(ed) My Way

    Write of passage

    This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger.  Today’s challenge was to write about resolutions. Do you believe in them? Have you ever done them? Beliefs? Success? Goals?

    ——————————————————————-

    Yes, I've made resolutions and, seeing as I'm old (okay, older than most mom-type bloggers, I know, DAMMIT!) there are quite a few that I have made/failed to achieve, consistently, like:

    • 1.  Lose weight – #fail
    • B.  Get out of debt – #fail(ed)
    • 3.  Get organized – #epicfail

    You see where I'm going with this, right? 

    [bows head in shame]

    So, in lieu of a new bill, banning ALL resolution-making in the future (seriously, it could happen) I've come up with a theme song, inspired by Frank Sinatra, instead:

    I Blogged It My Way

    And now, it's a brand new year

    And so I face, another 12 months of perpetual pms and a really bad complexion

    [takes deep breath]

    My friends, I'll say it clear

    Being a mom-type blogger sucks, of this I'm certain

    Laundry baskets are full, the dishwasher is STILL broken

    And yes, I've blogged it ALL

    I blogged it my way

    Regrets, I've had a few

    But then again, I probably blogged that, too

    You're welcome

    What, so would you, when raising 4 exemptions

    Stuff just doesn't happen, it hits the fan, watch where you step

    This IS my mantra

    And more, much more than this

    I blogged it my way

    [clears throat]

    Yes, there were times

    I'm sure you knew

    When I blogged more than I could chew

    (???)

    But through it all, when there was doubt

    I sucked it up and blogged it out

    I Facebooked it all and STILL stood tall AND blogged it my way

    [sound of crickets chirping]

    I've loved, I've laughed and cried

    Twittered it too, no matter how confusing

    And now, as tears subside

    I find it all so amusing

    To think I made this, too

    And may I say, not in a shy way

    "Oh, no, oh, no, not me, I'm still a dork, aaaaanyway"

    [last verse, you're welcome!]

    For what is a mom, what has she got?

    If not for my blog, I'd lose my train of thought

    To say the things I truly feel, keyword Gods be #damn(ed)

    The record shows, even though my traffic numbers blow

    I blogged it my way!

    [instrumental]

    Yes, maybe we should ALL just blog it….aaaaanyway!

    Other folks participating, today:

    Write on!

    [Click here to view past Writing Challenges]

    Liz@thisfullhouse signature

    © 2010 This Full House - All Rights Reserved.

  • Writing Challenge #3: The Gift – Angels Bearing Lopsided Christmas Trees

    Write of passage

    This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger.  Today’s challenge was Write about the Christmas Gift you remember the most.

    ——————————————————————-

    Like most of the kids in our neighborhood, my twin brother and I eagerly counted down the days until Christmas, by doing our homework, eating our all of our vegetables and cleaning our rooms, without being asked, in a desperate attempt to earn extra points with Santa Claus. 

    However, we were perhaps the only family in town without a tree. 

    "Not until Christmas Eve."

    We would sit and sulk in the back of our station wagon, on the way to the laundromat, or coming back home from food shopping, as our folks marveled at other people's houses, every weekend.  Still.  No tree.

    "In Hungary, kids had to wait until after midnight for the Christmas Angel."

    Oh, there were plenty of stories.  About trees and drunken angels.  Like, the year my grandfather decided to celebrate Christmas on the way home from work, tripped on the entrance of their small apartment and dropped their tree…decorations and all.

    "It was the Angel, I tell you, I saw it drinking on the trolley!"

    I'm sure my grandmother didn't appreciate my grandfather's dry sense of humor, just as much as my brother and I couldn't understand my father's excitement at finding a pair of socks, or a foil wrapped orange under their Christmas tree.

    Still.  We listened and it made my father miss them both, all the more.

    "Daddy's home and he's got our tree!"

    My father worked for a landscaper and for years sold Christmas trees, in the parking lot of a garden center, before being laid-off for the winter.

    "It's beautiful, Daddy!"

    If you were to ask me what Christmas gift I remember the most, thirty-something years ago, I would have answered the Barbie Country Camper.

    "Your grandmother would have loved such a tree."

    Today, it's stories of drunken Christmas Angels and lopsided tabletop trees that help make Christmastime special for me…and my family.

    Just like Dad.

    Other folks participating, today:

    Write on!

    [Click here to view past Writing Challenges]

    Liz@thisfullhouse signature

    © 2009 This Full House - All Rights Reserved.

  • Writing Challenge #2: The Lunch Box – Hungary for Peanut Butter

    Write of passage

    This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger.  Today’s challenge was to take 15 minutes and write about your elementary school lunch.

    ——————————————————————-

    It was 1946 and Hungary, as nearly all of Europe, was devastated by World War II, including the small hamlet where my mother attended kindergarten.   My mother's earliest childhood memory, one of a very few that she will even speak of, is the day the Americans shipped a case of peanut butter to her school.

    Each child was asked to line up and receive his, or her ration of peanut butter and then it was my mother's turn.

    "Eva, where is your bread?"

    My mother shyly whispered into her teacher's ear that she didn't have any; the local bakers ran out of their allotment of bread, earlier that morning.

    "Well, what am I supposed to spread the peanut butter on, the palm of your hand?"

    Growing up, we were used to hearing such stories at the dinner table — how, even in a big city like Budapest, my father was forced to steal to feed his younger siblings — still, I don't think that my twin brother and I ever really understood how difficult it was for my parents.

    Thinking back on it now, I seemed to have developed a sort of school daze and I can't seem to remember where, or even what we ate for lunch. 

    However, I can tell you this:  there was always plenty of peanut butter AND bread in our house.

    Mine, too.

    [Note:  A portion of this piece was originally written in 2008 for my Blogging Out Hunger post as a part of the We Can't Let This Bank Fail Campaign]

    Other participants writing, today:

    Write on!

    [Click here to view past Writing Challenges]

    Liz@thisfullhouse signature

    © 2009 This Full House - All Rights Reserved.

  • Writing Challenge #1: Character – Senior Moment

    Write of passage

    This is part of a writing challenge at {W}rite-Of-Passage, a community of bloggers who are looking to get back to the writing part of blogging and brainchild of my friend, Mrs. Flinger.  Today’s challenge was to find a person in public and write a story around them.

    ——————————————————————-

    "Where's your ticket?" the old woman croaked as she reached out her spotted hand and wiggled her boney fingers, filed razor-sharp and painted the color of congealed blood.

    I nudged the children behind me, cleared my throat and replied, "We were told that we could buy tickets at the door."

    Her thin lips quivered, as she let out a raspy sigh and replied, "Really?"  Her breath smelled heavily of stale cigarette smoke and, in my mind's eye, I pictured her as one of the flesh-eating trolls my grandmother warned would come after us in our sleep, whenever my twin brother and I refused to eat our vegetables. 

    She raised one penciled-eyebrow and licked her lips; imagining me as her next meal, no doubt.

    "Well, you were sadly misinformed."

    She pushed back from the reception table and I swear, she made a rattling sort of sound, as if she were chained to the chair.  I started to back away, surprised to see that the woman looked MUCH taller than I had imagined and came to the realization that I was indeed terribly wrong — the woman WAS a very old dragon, trapped in human form.

    "I'…uh…um…but…"

    I bit my lower lip, knowing that, somehow, this was going to end badly and I scanned the room for an emergency exit.

    "Do you have a ticket, or no?"

    No, and no craft show was worth being dressed down by a fiery old dragon, right? 

    "No, DAMMIT."

    The drab gray pashmina fell from her thin shoulders and revealed her long swan-like neck.

    "That's okay, Sweetie."

    She reached into a pouch which hung from a beautiful gold chain-linked belt that was wrapped around her tiny little waist.

    "There is no admittance fee."

    She pulled out 4 lollipops and handed them to each of my kids.

    "Uh…um…but…"

    Then, she handed me a bunch of tickets.

    "Also, everyone gets a free raffle ticket, today."

    I was going to protest — there had to be at least a dozen tickets, or more — but, I stared blankly at her warm smiling eyes and, well, I was ashamed to admit that the old woman wasn't a troll, or dragon at all.

    "Besides, I can tell that you're having a really bad day."

    She must be a mom.

    [Note:  Although, the conversation is a work of fiction, it is loosely based on an incident, IRL, that did indeed, go very badly.  It's all good, though.  She apologized.  I forgave her.  She WAS a mom.]

    Other participants writing, today:

    Write on!

    [Click here to view past Writing Challenges]

    Liz@thisfullhouse signature

    © 2009 This Full House - All Rights Reserved.