Friday, April 30, 2010



I've got nothing my in head today
Zero thoughts to share
The place between my ears
Seems to be filled with air.

There's zilch to offer at the end
Zip to to contemplate.
Though I hope that all my efforts
You do appreciate.

So goodbye A to Z.
It's really been a treat.
I did not anticipate
The great people I would meet.

Even so I hope
To get visits from you still
And I want to also say
It's been real.

-Marjorie Napier-

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Yikes and Yuck!


So today I don't have a fictitious story OR a poem. That is what the yikes is for. I thought it would be X that did me in. Trouble with Y is how the heck do you come up with a story that starts with a Y word? Okay I'm sure you could, but today I'm completely exhausted and practically falling asleep right now. Fortunately I DO have a little story about one of my sons.


First I want to start out by saying that my husband is a HUGE germaphobe. I mean he goes all out when people are sick in the house with disinfectant wipes and Lysol spray. He won't go near the sick person as long as they are sick. I'm not even close to exaggerating.

So Why, WHY in the name of Heaven would he choose to give our three-year-old a spoon and a jar of peanut butter and say "have at it"? Well, I know the answer and that is that our three-year-old does not eat anything. You think I'm kidding. There are about three things he eats. Yogurt, peanut butter sandwiches, and carrots. I'm exaggerating a little but only a little.

This morning my husband had one of those silly moments and let our son eat out of the jar of peanut butter. I was WAY too tired to argue, and at that point I was just fighting to stay awake.

Hubby left for work. I was just alternating between spacing out and trying to stay awake. I did notice that the baby was being awfully quiet. I knew he had to be into something. I looked around and low and behold there was little Noah sitting on the floor with the jar of peanut butter. He was happily sucking his fingers free of the massive globs of peanut butter he had reached in the jar for. It was everywhere! On his arms, legs, hands, and I hardly need add his face.

I grabbed the jar of peanut butter. My little guy sure knows how to protest too. So amid cries and endless thrashing I attempted to wipe the sticky mess off. I got most of it off, but I still need to give him a bath tonight. I figured he would get messier as the day progressed so I didn't need to waste water and soap so early.

The really sad thing is this is not the first time I have had to deal with this exact same situation. It was hilarious the first time, mildly amusing the second time, and completely unfunny this morning.

Tips to me from myself:

1. Watch the baby, stupid!

2. No more peanut butter out of the jar for Elijah, dummy!

3. Put the peanut butter away in the cabinet, silly!

4. Watch the baby, stupid!

*Takes a bow*

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

X-ing Off Names

The following is a work of fiction.

X-ing Off Names

I hid in the parking garage behind a car. Waiting. I had to make sure the job was done before I moved on to the next.

A guy's gotta eat... and have a nice car... and a nice house filled with nice things. Let's not forget the hot girlfriends. Can't ask for much more in life. Except that I get the job done. I always get the job done.

I heard footsteps echoing through the garage, keys jingling. A tall curvaceous woman with a tight suit unlocked her car. False alarm. I was disappointed. I was ready to be done with this. I watched the woman pull her car out of the garage.

Not a second too soon I saw my mark. She was certainly a knock out. I'd seen her before, but I rarely looked closely at any hit. She was the kind of woman that I liked to keep at my house. Too bad. I smiled to myself.

I made my way into the open. I approached her. She looked curious and even a little scared. I liked it when they looked scared. "Mrs. Murphy?"

"For the moment. Who are you?"

"Let me show you." I smiled wide knowing the fear that was about to overtake her. I pulled out my gun, and pointed it at her face. She sneered at me. Wait, What?

"Go ahead then." She smiled at me, and I wondered where the flicker of fear had gone when I first approached her. I had to ask.

"Why aren't you afraid?"

"Being afraid makes no difference. Besides it's you who should fear me."

I grinned wide, showing my teeth.

"Tell you what," she continued. "Let me go and this won't be your last hit. Kill me and lose everything. I know who you are. I know who you work for, and I have provisions in place that will ensure that if I don't show up for my appointments tomorrow you will be turned in to the police."

I had had enough. This game was boring me , and I didn't appreciate being threatened. I pulled the trigger and shot her in the head. She crumpled on the ground. I gave her a kick before I slipped quickly and quietly out of the garage.

She'd known what she was doing. She planted a seed of fear into me. She deprived me of the pleasure of X-ing off names. For next few weeks at least.

The End

Tuesday, April 27, 2010


The following is a work of non-fiction


The moonlight filtered through the window casting a blue hue over my bedroom. The bars of the metal framed futon digging in to various parts of my body as I tossed and turned. What if, what if, what if?

A day before I had asked my mother when my fourteen-year-old brother might arrive at his destination. I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach, a tight knot that wouldn't go away. A feeling of foreboding. "Are you worried?" My mother had asked. I nodded feeling embarrassed about it.

What if, what if, what if?

I opened my eyes to look at the time on my digital clock. The bright, red numbers read four in the morning. I shut my eyes trying to will myself into relaxation. I turned over again tangling my long curly hair around my face. I raked my fingers through the uncomfortable strands pulling them away from my eyes and mouth.

My older brother is going to call. He's going to call and tell us bad news.

I tried to think of something else, anything else.

What if, what if, what if? Was that the phone I heard ringing? It is!

I got up and made my way to the kitchen as fast as I was able.


"Hello, Marjorie?"

"Yeah, hi. What's up?"

"B___, didn't get off the train here. Go get Mom."

I walked from the kitchen and down the hall to my mother's room. I had expected this. There had been a reason to worry.

Author's note: This is just the beginning of a very long and complicated story that actually does have a happy ending.

Monday, April 26, 2010



I sing a song to the free air
My voice like bird on wing
There is nothing in this world
I like better than to sing

To bring a song to silence
To hear the tones on wind
A moment in time to share with you
Some happiness to lend

And will you sing a song with me
In melodic tones of choice?
Be it happiness or sorrow,
By my side, lift your voice!

-Marjorie Napier-

Sunday, April 25, 2010


First off, I would like to apologize for my lack of post yesterday. I was gone from morning until night and I was really tired. So, I'm posting for "U" today instead.


I've been learning to tie my shoes,
But every time I've tried
The loose knot that I think I've made
Just seems to come untied.

The thought of tying laces
Makes me really tired.
The inventor of the bow
Was really uninspired.

Velcro was the best invention
Ever known to man.
If I could have those kind of shoes
It would be really grand.

For now I'm in a temper
And throw my shoes off to the side,
Because I can't stand
For my shoes to come untied.

-Marjorie Napier-

Friday, April 23, 2010

Telling Tales

The following is a work of fiction.

Telling Tales

Timothy barged into the house swinging the screen door loudly on its hinges. "Mom, Mom, Come look! You have to see. I caught a baby dragon!"

Timothy's mother rolled her eyes and patted his head. "Timmy, how often do I have to tell you not to tell lies?"

"But Mom I really did!

"I don't want to hear another word!" She was looking rather fierce now, and it caused him to recoil.

Timothy slumped his shoulders and made his way back outside. He bent low examining his makeshift cage. It was just an old sand pail, but it was as fine a cage for a baby dragon he was going to get in a pinch. He looked inside to see the tiny baby dragon staring back at him trying to claw its way back up the sides of the blue sand pail. "She didn't believe me," he said sadly to the little lizard. He carefully tipped the pail to let his dragon escape.

The next day he was exploring the woods around the back of his house. He stopped short when he saw something glinting in the black dirt. He dug with his fingertips until he exposed a large plastic gem. He looked around and quickly buried it once more. He went rushing into the kitchen where his mother was doing the dishes.
"Mom, guess what?"

"hmm?" His mother was concentrating on a particularly stubborn grease stain on her cooking pot.

"I found some pirate treasure. It was a really big diamond, and I wanted to take it, but I put it back in case the pirates came back and found out it was me!"

"Timothy James! I have had quite enough. Every single day you come in here and tell me some new tall tale. Go and find yourself some friends, and quite pestering me with your lies!"

That mother didn't remember when she used to be a princess. She didn't remember finding her own dragon. She didn't remember ever becoming a mighty sorceress or becoming a pirate herself. It was she who buried the plastic gem. Timothy inherited her vivid imagination, but her imagination never had a chance. Timothy's did not either for his mother had become her own mother.

The End

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Spring Scenery

Making it short and sweet. Small poem along with some photos that I have taken.

Spring Scenery

The Santa Catalinas are ever present here.
The palo verdes have begun to bloom.
The white thorn acacias yellow puff balls fall.
The sweet scent blows on the wind.

-Marjorie Napier-

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Roxanne's story (New Dawn)

NOTE: I wrote this story a couple of years ago. I planned to post it for "R" day. Coincidently I was feeling kind of lazy today anyway.

The following is a work of non-fiction

New Dawn (Or Roxanne's story)

I stared at the pregnancy test. This just couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t be. I was going to leave him. What was I going to do now? The two pink lines stared up at me. Oh, God! Oh God, one child already not 5 months old. I put my forehead in my hands as I bowed my head in frustration. My long dark hair fell about my arms and in front of my face. Oh, how I hated that man I was planning on leaving. I had fallen prey to his lack of responsibility when it came to family and keeping promises. Oh, that I would have listened to my mother. The fault wasn’t just his. It was mine too, and I knew it. What a mess I was making out of my life! Why had I gotten involved in this relationship to begin with? Maybe I was sad and lonely. Maybe I was looking to fill the void of a childhood without a decent male father figure. I hadn’t any excuses that would justify, in my mind, this travesty of a relationship anyway.

I decided that the best thing to do was to call my mother right away and be out with it. Her reaction was exactly like I thought it would be. “Oh, my gosh! How did this happen? Weren’t you being careful?”

“Yes” I lied. In truth I wanted to be careful, but I lacked sufficient will over his. I began to cry as if my heart was breaking, crumbling in to millions of little pieces. How stupid I had been over the past two years. I had allowed myself to be emotionally abused and controlled to the point that I couldn’t even glance at another man without being accused of cheating.

“Honey, why are you crying?” my mother asked.

“I just don’t know what to do! What am I going to do with two kids? I can’t even take care of myself!”

“I told you. You should have left him before Isabella was born.”

“I know.” I said still sobbing.

“It isn’t too late. You know you can always come and stay with me.”

“I know. I gotta go. I can’t talk any more.”

As I hung up I continued to cry. I knew it was time to leave. The problem was getting up the nerve to tell him. I didn’t think I had a good enough reason.

Over the next few months I tried hard to find a “good enough” reason to tell him I was leaving him. After all as far as I knew he had been clean for a while, or at least I hadn’t caught him at it. So, that was the trick. I needed to catch him in a lie, and for that I had to quit believing his lies. That’s what my mother always told me. That’s what annoyed me the most about her. She was always right.

I was finding myself more and more in the pit as I continued to stay in that relationship. He continued to speculate as to what sex the baby was going to be, but I knew he wanted a boy this time. “Not like it’s going to matter once I leave you.” I thought. I too thought that I might just have a boy, but I struggled with feeling any real affection for the child growing within my womb, and I felt increasingly guiltier. I wanted to love my child, and perhaps I did even if I didn’t know it. I worried that if I didn’t love it enough than he/she would die, and that thought occupied me night and day so that I was determined to drive away this indifference toward my coming second child, and so ensure its safety.

Meanwhile I had very little to eat and my other little baby was just scraping by as well. Where was all the money going? I had to catch him. This was my “good enough reason”, but strange fear kept me from outright accusing him of spending the money on drugs without proof.

One night when I was about two or three months along I had a strange and wonderful dream. I was sitting in a hospital bed having just given birth. Beside me was the man I despised, and on my lap was a child. It was a baby boy. Cute though he was he was wearing a blue and red sweat suit and was overly large for a newborn. Black hair adorned his head and inside his mouth were two shiny white teeth. He-who-shall-remain-unnamed and I were playing with this overly large child, and the small boy was laughing and giggling. Quite suddenly the child drew my finger into his mouth and bit me. “Ouch!” At that very moment comprehension dawned on me. Also at the very same moment a hospital attendant walked in. He was tall and good looking with sleek black hair his demeanor was calm, and he had the kindest smile on his face. To him I said, “Excuse me. I’m sorry, but this is not my baby. He is too big and has teeth.”

“I’m very sorry about the mix up.” He replied to me in kind tones that reflected his looks completely. He then took the child off my lap an exited the room.

Not a moment later the attendant reentered the room. He was carrying a very large mirror. It was so large that he being a tall man carried it with his arms spread out wide. It might even have been heavy, but he was not burdened. The frame of the mirror was large and intricately carved. It reminded me of Victorian furniture, and upon the reflective surface of the glass was written the name “Roxanne.”

I looked down as the attendant set the mirror upon the empty bed next to mine. I was holding a beautiful newborn baby girl, and my despised partner had vanished from the scene. I was happy.

I sat up in bed the next morning with the full details of my dream vividly placed in my mind. I wrinkled my nose at the unusual name “Roxanne,” a name not often given to anyone this century or the last for that matter. I had entertained the idea of the name “Aurora” if I had a girl because it means “dawn,” but I disliked the name “Dawn,” and I thought Aurora was a bit too unusual sounding.

I got up and wondered about that dream. It was telling me that I was going to have a girl and that she was to be named Roxanne. The dream was a message to me. It was too vivid and precise to be ignored. I pulled out my baby name book. I turned the pages to “A,” then “C,” then “G,” and at last I ended up at “R” where I quickly scanned to the name “Roxanne.”

Name) Roxanne
Origin) Persian
Meaning) Dawn

I was astonished. I had just dreamed of the only other name in the world that meant “dawn.” This was not only a dream about my child, but a dream that told me in no uncertain terms that the birth of my child would be the dawn of a new and different life for me. How could I ignore that? I couldn’t.

Nevertheless it took me another month to get up the nerve to do what I knew I had to do. The week after I did I was moved out and with my mother who not only helped me but was to me the most supportive and loving friend I could ask for in this life. The best part was that I was able to love my child without even trying. This child came with the dawn of my new life and the dawn of my new self and is, therefore, called Roxanne.

The Beginning

Tuesday, April 20, 2010


The following is a work of fiction.


The knobbly hands of the old woman were never still. They were surprisingly steady though as she moved the needle up an out of the fabric and then down and back through. She was rocking back and forth in the old, wooden rocking chair her late husband had built for her. It was here that she felt safest and most peaceful and reflective. She stared off as if to an unknown distance. For she was completely blind.

She had never learned to use those modern sewing machines and she never wanted to. Though her hand ached from severe arthritis most of the time. She wanted to feel the thread between her fingers. It was as if she communed with the fabric itself as she connected it to the other pieces that had also once been lonely and dull. Together they were art.

Of course, she needed someone to help her these days. She needed the right shapes, and she needed the right colors. She had trained the small girl sitting close by her, near the fire to know which part she was working on and which part she would need next. The old woman was from a time when children were seen and not heard. This quiet, bookish great-granddaughter was uniquely suited to keep her company in all respects. The world was too noisy and too impatient nowadays. Nobody slowed down. Nobody knew quiet reflection and peace, but the old woman knew. For that, she was able to create as nobody else in her family was able.

She used to sell her quilts for extra money when she was young. She was taught the art by her grandmother. Her skill was beyond that of her grandmother's and her great-grandmother's. For she wove stories into her quilts. Pictures of places she'd only imagined and some she had seen only in photographs adorned her masterpieces. These days it was the stories of her life. Her hometown, her old family home, where she raised her children, the cities her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were born in were all lined on her walls folded up in her trunks and tucked away in the attic. Then there were the gift quilts she had given to her family. They would have them always. They would pass them on to their children.

The old woman touched the child next to her. The young girl looked up from her book and handed her "Granny" the next and last piece of this particular quilt. "Thank you child," the old woman said as she grasped the hand of the youngest member of her family.

No one knew this was the very last quilt.

The End

Monday, April 19, 2010

Prison Break

I'll leave this one up to interpretation. I find that people build themselves many prisons in this world. Let's have fun and name a few things this poem could draw parallels to.

Prison Break

You can build a prison brick by brick
With fortified walls
With razor wire spiraling round
And sterile looking halls.

You can live there with your body
Or you can live there in your mind.
You can build it so that there
Is no exit at all to find.

Or you can stage a breakout.
You could be slipped a file,
But without a little help
You may be there for a while.

So go it alone my headstrong friend
If you never want escape,
But in the end don't you think
You're gonna want a prison break?

-Marjorie Napier-

Saturday, April 17, 2010

On the Road for Nothing

The following is a work of fiction. This is the male character that goes along with my "N" post.

On the Road for Nothing

Where was I going? I drove down the road with my mind thinking in a million different directions. It’s not like I had a clear idea of what I was going to say. After a year what do you say to someone? Sure I kicked her out. What else was I supposed to do? Did she want me to get up at 2 am and feed a screaming baby while she got to sleep? Screw that. Just screw that. I wasn't going to do it.

Even before that. She had turned into some needy, cranky bitch with a fat ass. “Honey can you go to the store and get whatthehellever?” NO I cannot. And for the record I wasn’t sleeping with her. Not since she gained 30 pounds. So what did she expect?

But oh my God did she look good when I saw her three days ago in the park. She didn’t see me but I sure as hell saw her. She was wearing a skirt that showed her long legs and a blouse that bared just enough cleavage. Her waist was back to its right size. I would’ve given anything in that moment to have her back in my bed.

The kid didn’t look so bad either. I mean she was walking. Although she was still pretty much a baby. There was no way I was going to be changing diapers. So she was just going to have to get square with that. If she wants me back she’s going to have to get square with a lot of things. And why wouldn’t she? Want me back, I mean.

If she was looking for an apology she was going to have to look somewhere else. I’m not apologizing for taking some time. I’m not apologizing for wanting my lady to look good, and I’m not apologizing for not getting up with a screaming baby at 2am when I had work the next morning.

I sat back and imagined her falling into my arms after all this time. I was sure she’d missed me. I was sure until I got to her apartment and knocked on the door. A man answered. Looks like I was on the road for nothing.

The End

Friday, April 16, 2010


The following is a work of fiction. This is just another character I pulled out of thin air.


New baby. Newly single. I stood in the middle of my new apartment. It was completely empty and my footsteps echoed around the room. I looked around at the shabby walls. God, I didn’t even think to ask if this place was old enough to have lead paint coated somewhere underneath some of the newer paint.

I looked down at my sleeping daughter in her infant car seat. “I guess I am just going to have to make sure you don’t gnaw on any walls when you get a little older.” I whispered. She didn’t know how hard this was for me. She would never know. I would work to make sure she didn’t know.

I had a fairly decent job. Everything had been almost perfect until my fiancé kicked me out. He said he wasn’t ready for this whole family thing. I had watched as he began to view me with disgust as I got bigger. I had almost expected to be kicked out shortly after my daughter was born. Well thanks for that, Asshole. Thanks a heap. I was forced to live with my mom until I could get a place of my own. It didn’t take long. Thank goodness I still had that job.

The movers were going to be delivering my furniture within the next few minutes. My daughter stirred. She’d need to eat in a bit. I opened her pink diaper bag. I took out the can of formula and set it on the counter along with her bottle and the gallon of water I brought with me. My daughters cries began in earnest and I mentally patted myself on the back for having such a good internal clock.

I sat against the wall and cradled my daughter’s tiny body in my arms as I fed her. I wondered just how the hell I was going to get through this alone. Sometimes new wasn’t good. Sometimes new wasn’t easy, or happy, or exciting. Sometimes new was damn scary and I was… scared.

I looked down into my daughters eyes. She was just so content and so oblivious to any of the problems in this world. So I would make sure that this new little person didn’t feel how afraid I was. She would know that she was always the best new thing in my life. She would know that every new or exciting thing she did was the best new and exciting thing in the world.

The knock on the door startled me. The movers were there with my things. Time for my new life to start.

The End

Thursday, April 15, 2010



My name is mud
Mud is my name
Merrily marketing
The dirtiest game
Making mud pies
Mud peddling puddles
Making a mess
Making fine muddles
Of hair and clothes
Shoes and socks galore
Tracing the tracks
All over your floor

Mix my makings
In everyday messes
I’ll find fun times
On best Sunday dresses
And just when you think
That you've had quite enough
I’ll make my way
Onto brand new stuff
So mix me and make me
Extra water for runny
Mud is the best
On days that are sunny

-Marjorie Napier-

About the pictures

A couple of years ago I went to visit my mom in Illinois. It was a really wet that year. I live in Arizona so rain is a real treat. my kids found another treat that comes with the rain. Mud. Isabella is not pictured because unlike the other kids she did NOT want to play in the mud. Roxanne was the leader on this and most days they decided to go play in the wet grass and mud puddles. I eventually gave up trying to keep them clean and just let them get on their swimsuits and have at it. Once I let them just get dirty I was able to get a lot of good pictures. I also learned something. Letting kids be kids is not only a gift to them but a gift to yourself as well.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


The following poem is dedicated to my mother who has the most infectious laugh I've ever heard.


My sense of humor isn't main stream
It's not right or wrong
I just know that when I laugh
Everyone laughs along

I've had a long hard life it's true
I've had my share of strife
But when I laugh it's sure to bring
laughter into your life

Most of the time I'm called strong willed
And even then I know
That even if it's not funny
My laugh will make you glow

It's called infectious. That's the word.
Believe that even if
You like me or you choose to not
My laugh will give your day a lift.

-Marjorie Napier-

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Kite and Kitchens

Two light hearted poems today. I could use light hearted for such a difficult letter.


I've got string,
I've got rods,
I've got paper and ribbons,
I've got scissors,
And I've got my dad.
Later all I'll need is the wind.


Kitchens with dishes
Kitchens with dirt
Cleaning my kitchen
is exhausting work
The pans and the pots
Covered in gunk
The garbage can
piled high with junk
I need a maid
Because a maid I am not.
I think I'll go nuts
If I see one more pot
Caked with sauce or soup
from the previous night.
Lord knows my kitchen
is quite a sight!

-Marjorie Napier-

Monday, April 12, 2010


The following is a work of fiction


As I stared at the earrings in the display case I wondered how bad it would be just to buy them. I had rent next month to think about and my cell phone bill too. Plus, I had to eat, but those earrings were calling my name like the pair of strappy sandals last month. I had lost three pounds in the resulting fast at the end of the month when money was tight. At least my feet looked fab the entire time even if I felt less than stellar.

The month before that I had to go to the 99 cent store to buy my toiletries so that I could have that amazing blouse I saw in Bloomingdale's. My hair looked lank and my backside was a tad chaffed from the cheap toilet paper, but the guys in the office couldn't keep their eyes off me.

Each month I thought back to I saw some different sacrifice I had to make in other parts of my life. So as I stood there justifying how good I would look with those new dangley numbers hanging from my ears I couldn't help wondering why I couldn't just look good all around without all the sacrifice. Either I was going to have to get a better job, or I was going to have to stop shopping. AW Screw it! I asked the clerk to see the earrings.

The End

Saturday, April 10, 2010


The following is a work of fiction


"Shoot! AWW Damnit!" I looked down at my new skirt. My ball point pen had started leaking for no reason. My skirt was ruined. Why is it that you don't notice crap like this until its too late? I ran to the bathroom to try and wash some of the ink out right away. Maybe I would be able to salvage it.

I arrived in the bathroom down the hall from my office only to notice there were no paper towels with which to scrub the ink stain. At least it wasn't a huge stain. But it had centered itself right in the front. Now I had to wet my skirt. That's going to look fabulous. I groaned aloud.

"Hey Cheryl, what's up?" I turned around to see Karlee from reception.

"Oh, My freaking pen leaked all over my skirt"

"Isn't that your new one?"

"Ugh, Yes. It's so frustrating! I saved up for this skirt"

"For a skirt you were going to just wear to work?"

"Work's as good a place as any to make an impression. Probably the best place."

She gave me a puzzled look and shrugged her shoulders. Karlee was only 23. I supposed she thought a dress for club hopping was more worth the effort. I gave her a wave as she left and began scrubbing my skirt with my nails.

I exited the bathroom with the stain much less noticable light shade of blue and a huge wet area right in front of my crotch.

So much for making an impression at work. I passed by the boss on my way back to my office. He gave me a strange look I couldn't interpret. One thing was for certain. Every ball point pen in my office was going into the garbage.

The End

Friday, April 9, 2010

Hate (and Love)

Today I'm breaking with my story theme. It's partially because the subject of today's blog is something I have thought about a lot and I wanted to share. Today's subject is all about religion and politics or at least the emotions surrounding them. Touchy subjects, I know.

Everyone says that if you want to keep your friends don't discuss religion or politics. That is, of course because people get so darned worked up about those subjects. And that leads me to the real heart (or lack thereof) of the matter. Hate.

How many people in your political circle say "Oh I hate what's-his-face or what's-her-face?" They then proceed to go on a rant about this persons political views and how wrong they are etc. Now I'm not saying that very politically vocal people aren't sort of inviting this kind of thing, but really why all the hate? I might not like a person's views, but I don't hate that person for it. And I also think that the word "hate" is thrown out WAY too casually nowadays.

I also wanted to say something about how not to hate. How to love. Example: I know a good many people that I met online that I absolutely love. Especially those I met on a site called HPANA. Many of these people have completely opposite views on politics and religion. How do we get along? How do we not end up hating one another? Well, we rarely discuss those sensitive subjects, and when we do we have an unspoken agreement that we will be respectful. The key is respect. Plus if you can find common ground in your love for something else that's important to all of you (like writing for example) then you are one step closer to being able to discuss things like religion and politics. You can disagree. You can choose to love a person instead of hate them in spite of opposing view points.

I'm going to end with a list of things I DO feel it's okay to hate.

1. Child abuse - any kind
2. Abuse of the elderly
3. Terrorism
4. Bigotry
5. Violent crimes of any kind

Thursday, April 8, 2010


Before I get to the subject of my blog I just want to say that I love the desert, but I DO miss the green of the Midwest.


When I look out my window
I see blue and green
But mostly I see brown
I miss lush forest trees and grass
I miss flowers and rain
Falling down,

Rain brings green things up
Up from the ground.

This is Illinois. No comparison even when the desert is at its greenest.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010



As far back as I can remember I have been afraid of spiders. I would scream when I saw one even when I was a tiny little girl. To this day spiders terrify me, but my fear has extended itself to almost every member of the insect and arachnid population.

When I was about 5 years old I used to hide behind a bush and play with the snails that lived there. I would grab up rolly pollies (also known as pill bugs) and watch them roll into a ball so I could roll them around for a while. I could pick up a lady bug and watch it fly away.

Alas, those days are over. You couldn't get me to touch even a ladybug. There was a time I had a ladybug in my house. The surprise I felt when I couldn't bring myself to touch it to set it free was a startling revelation about myself. I had never faced my fear, and I had allowed it to escalate beyond reason. Why should I be afraid to touch a ladybug? Nothing could prepare me for the guilt I felt at seeing all my children yelp in fear at the slightest insect. I had projected my own fears onto them.

It was a particularly nice day to play outside, and that's exactly what my kids were doing. I heard a screech and went running to see what the matter was. A bug, of course. I went out to see what type of bug it was. It was only a love bug. The yard was infested. I knew that I would never get the kids to come back outside unless I did something drastic. "There's nothing wrong with these little bugs, kids. See?" I braced myself for what I was about to do. I dug deep and swallowed my fear. I picked up the little bug and I let it crawl across my hand. I saw my kids relax as I showed them that this bug was not going to hurt me or them. I watched them as the went back outside to play. Then, I ran to where they couldn't see me and shook my hand off violently. I then washed it. But I couldn't help but feel that I had accomplished something significant in biting back my fear for the moments it took me to dispel my children's fears.

The End

Tuesday, April 6, 2010



“Am I speaking English?” I asked my kids. I had told them all to clean their mess in the living room at least ten times. They were playing a game. Again. Do I have to yell every time I want something done? I refused to clean that ridiculous jungle of a mess. A mess that looked like a hurricane a tornado and a tsunami had all come through my living room and turned it into a disaster area.

I looked over at my kids who had gotten distracted from the task at hand again and wondered if I should get all of their ears checked. Or perhaps they all needed cat scans to see if their brains processed language correctly. “Seriously kids! Am I speaking a dead language? Sanskrit perhaps? No? Latin? Well, then am I speaking a foreign language that has no resemblance to English? Chinese? Arabic? No? A Native American language then? Navaho? No? Okay. Well, then STOP GOOFING OFF AND CLEAN THIS LIVING ROOM RIGHT NOW!”


Monday, April 5, 2010


I've decided that the occasional poem would not be out of the spirit of my story themed blogging this month.


I climbed up the the two walls
to the ceiling today.
Mommy got mad
So I couldn't stay.

I jumped off the sofa
and the table and chairs.
I climbed to the top
And rolled down the stairs.

I wish there were steps
Leading up the back wall
So I could get up there
and feel ten feet tall.

I wish that my mommy
Would take a chill pill
Instead of expecting
For me to sit still.

Because I am a daredevil
That's the way it should be
It makes my mom nervous
For I am just three.

-Marjorie Napier

Saturday, April 3, 2010


The following is a work of fiction.


"I'm putting this up where you can't get it," Mommy said as she frowned at me.

She was angry that I had gotten into the candy jar again. She set it on the top shelf of the pantry where she was sure I couldn't reach it, but I'm a good climber. I waited until she was distracted and I climbed to the top shelf to get a piece.

It was a strawberry flavored hard candy. I went back to my room so she wouldn't hear me unwrapping it. I popped it into my mouth. I liked that these had the soft center. That was my favorite part.

Just then I heard Mommy calling my name. She opened my bedroom door. "There you are! What are you doing in here all by yourself?" I just shook my head. She got that look on her face. She knew. She put her hand under my chin. "Spit it out," she commanded. I spit, but if she was getting my candy away from me I was going to make her sorry.


I can keep this up all day.

The End

Friday, April 2, 2010

Bacon: Two Kinds

The following is a work of fiction based on several elements of truth.

Bacon: Two Kinds

I hate mornings. I want to be sleeping when everybody else needs me to be awake. I can't drink coffee because caffeine gives me migraines. So when I found myself up making breakfast on a Saturday I had to ask myself , "Why me?"

I was cooking up pancakes eggs and two kinds of bacon for my family and my husband's family. Almost every one of the eleven people in my house preferred to eat the regular bacon. It's my husband and his father who insisted on turkey bacon. They don't eat pork. Nor do they eat beef. I let out a sigh as I watched my food cooking on the stove. I was tired and hungry. It would've been so much easier if I could have cooked just one kind of bacon.

It's like much of my life. Most of the time I just cook what they will eat choosing ground turkey instead of ground beef. I cook a chicken instead of a roast. I miss roasts, lovely roasts with potatoes, carrots, and onions. I miss pork chops too. I suppose this style of eating is best given up anyway.

I laid the bacon out on two different plates lined with paper towels. I stacked the pancakes in two neat piles on a platter. I saved the eggs for last. Everyone likes their eggs cooked differently. Yet another chore added to the fact that I was up in the morning cooking pancakes, eggs, and bacon- two kinds!

The End

Thursday, April 1, 2010

April Fool

April Fool

I woke up this morning excited that it was April Fool's Day. My Brothers and my sister were up, and I was looking forward to tricking all of them before the day was over.

Mommy was up but she looked tired so I decided I would wait 'till later to trick her. I was hungry anyway so I ate some cereal and helped Mommy keep the baby calm.

Later on, I decided to make some toast and put lime juice on it. Haha! I gave it to Mommy and she thought I was being nice. Boy, was she wrong! She didn't get mad though so I decided to see what reaction I would get from Gabriel, Roxanne, and Grandpa with the same trick. Grandpa didn't think it was funny. He told me the kitchen was no place for experiments.

I spent the rest of the morning sneaking up on people and tricking them. I poured water up Roxanne's nose. She went crying to Mommy and she said, "Isabella, if you can't think of an appropriate way to celebrate April Fool's Day I'm ending it!"

I skipped of to think of jokes that might be acceptable. My chance came to really get Mommy good when she came out of the bathroom. "BOO!" I shouted. HAHA! She jumped up almost to the ceiling.

"That's it, Isabella! April Fools Day is over. If I catch you joking on an another person you're going to get in big trouble."

Oh Rats.

The End