Goodbye Yellow and Green...So Long You Quack of a Duck...

boulder craigslist>for sale/wanted>miscellaneous items

UNIVERSITY OF OREGON STUFF - $0 (NORTH BOULDER)

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For all you local University of Oregon students and alums and anyone else for that matter who loves yellow, green, ducks or any of these three things in combination:

Yours for whoever wants it. Heck, it's for anyone or ones who are willing to come by and dig through four large boxes of University of Oregon stuff on short notice. The cost: FREE. Yours for the taking. Please, take it. Just do it by midnight tomorrow because The Hubby comes home the following day from a business trip. Oooh...Sorry, a little TMI.

We've got flags with big Os; pom-poms in yellow and green, green or just plain yellow; old game season tickets (laminated so they can be used as bookmarks); baseball caps for almost every one of the Division I sports that the University of Oregon has - reads something like "Oregon ______" - you fill in the blank (i.e. baseball, football, track), we got it; headbands; buffs - like the ones they wear on the TV show "Survivor" except the word "Oregon" is spelled out all over them in a shade of highlighter yellow; license plate frames; T-shirts - long-sleeved, short-sleeved, no-sleeved, with words and pictures, words only, pictures only or just one letter - you guessed it: "O"; hoodies and sweatshirts along the same lines of those T-Shirts; golf balls; Christmas ornaments and even cuff links! Really, cufflinks in the shape of the big green "O". Can go with whatever white (or highlighter yellow) dress shirt that you or your Significant Other owns.

All must go. Our home is beginning to look like an episode of the A & E show: Hoarders, except our stuff is all yellow and green with the letter O sprinkled all over it. It's spilling from our closets, our cabinets, our bookshelves and from behind our couches. I'm tripping over green and yellow things..oh gosh, there I go again - TMI - sorry!

An added plus: the stuff is vintage, dating back to the early 90's, when The Hubby first started at said esteemed University. You will find every last bit of anything wearable, stickable, postable, storable and hangable that has the Oregon logo, mascot and colors (dark green and highlighter yellow).

All must go. And fast. No, really fast, like by tomorrow night. Did I mention this already? These items must go because I would like to live in a home where the main theme is not a big O or Puddles the Duck (really, that truly is the name of the school's mascot - I kid you not).

I will set the boxes out on the porch. I've even thrown in about 15 of those stuffed duck mascots in various sizes that the kids have received from their grandparents from the time they were each born into this world. Trust me, they don't need them. They've been significantly brainwashed and more than likely, could stitch up another stuffed duck from memory while sleeping.

Interested parties, please respond via email at "sufferingwifeoforegonduckfan@yahoo.com"

Free me of the yellow and green. Please. Please. I beg of you.

Disclaimer (for the Oregon duck fans in my life): This post does not express the views of the writer. It's a writing prompt for goodness sakes, brought to you by Red Writing Hood in which we were asked to imagine you’ve just had a fight with a friend, a co-worker, husband, significant other, child – you get the picture. You’re mad. It’s time for revenge.

What would you sell?
Write a humorous listing for eBay or Craig’s List. Talk about the history of the items, why they must go.

A Burst of Freedom...

The following piece is in response to a memoir writing prompt at the Red Dress Club.

We were in a two story house on the second floor. It was me, age 7 years old, and a few other kids, younger than me, between the ages of 3-5. Then there was Monique, tall, dark-skinned girl with cornrows in her hair. She was twelve years old and was our babysitter's daughter. She was watching us even though her older sister was the one who was left in charge, while their mother - the official babysitter - was out.

We were gathered in a living room. There carpet spread across the floor was a dingy forest green. The furniture that sat on it was made up of shades of brown fabric the color of caramel. There was one long couch by a window and then one big chair sitting off to one side. An old black colored television was on and the animated cartoon show of The Jackson 5 played on t.v.

Monique had gone into the adjoining bedroom for a few moments while we kids were left outside. Then she called us in one by one. I was the oldest and I was first. I walked in and saw her standing there with a silver wire in her hand that was as wide as a tree branch. She waved it and commanded me to do things to our bodies that included inappropriate touching. It lasted about ten minutes, though it felt much longer. Then she asked me to leave and she called in the next kid.

I sat down on the couch feeling tense - like something inside me was stretched tight. This wasn't the first time Monique had made me do things like this. Under her mother's care, I had endured things that I hadn't even shared with my mother. With that feeling of tension, a rage started within me and continued to build as she called in each kid individually. I found myself staring at the Jackson 5 cartoon in silence but not really seeing it. She then called me in again. When we were done, she walked out of the bedroom with me and began swinging the silver wire at us, threatening us. She did that for a few minutes and then went back into the bedroom.

Something inside me shifted then. With a steely determination, I turned and walked down the stairs, out of the front door and into bright sunshine. I was leaving - totally out of there. I was done with Monique and I was done with this. I wasn't going to take it anymore. I was walking away from that girl and from her abuse.

I walked up the sidewalk, barely noticing the rows of brownstones on either side of the street. I didn't know where I was going and I didn't care. All I knew was that it was away. I barely heard the sounds of the cars passing by or the people talking and laughing as they hung outside their houses on their stoops. My eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of me and I was following it.

Suddenly I heard my name being called. Repeatedly.

A shiny red car came up beside me and stopped. I looked up. I saw my mother's face leaning over her friend, who was in the driver's seat. My mother's forehead was furrowed and her eyes were questioning.

"Melanie! What are you doing out here?"

I looked at her, silent for a moment, and then just shook my head. I don't remember what I said. My mom then gestured for me to come to the car as her friend reached over and unlocked the passenger door behind the driver's seat. I got in and closed the door and sat quietly as the car pulled away from the sidewalk. I said things but I don't remember what they were. I felt a huge sense of relief. Relief to see my mother, who just happened to be riding in a car on her way to another destination with a co-worker (she was planning on returning to get me when her work day was done) and relief to be away from Monique. It was truly done. Over. I felt proud of myself for finally standing up and refusing to take the abuse anymore.

Additonal Note: I was truly trying to recall happier memories. I know I have some - a good bunch in fact, but my sharpest memories from my childhood I've discovered, are the ones that were centered around my abuse and those times when I was freed from it. The above memory was one of those times.

One Saturday...

9:44a

I sit in the car, sipping on a white mocha and listening to classical music and I feel like this is the best thing ever. My shoulders are relaxed and I’m feeling good. I need to remember to give The Husband a hug when I get home for agreeing to let me have this time.

This is officially my writing time - I have set up a weekly schedule and I am beginning to put it into practice. Though, today, I ran behind for couple of reasons - late start, hubby needed to take a shower, a grocery errand run. It becomes very obvious to me that I need to plan better: have the breakfast groceries set the night before; get up earlier and leave the house earlier…

So this week the alloted 2 hours for writing will become 45 minutes. But I live and learn.

What this time alone is causing me to realize too is how important “me” time is. Just the difference an hour to myself makes - I’m a more alert and better Mama. I’ll need to talk to the husband about this. Set up a schedule. I believe he needs some “me” time to. It would make him a happier man and he deserves it. He does an amazing job taking care of his family.

8:56p

Almost twelve hours and one classmate’s birthday party later, the highlights being that my 5 year old became excited over Skee-Ball. It reminded him of bowling and he couldn’t help but play it over and over, and the 3 year old burying his head in my husband’s jacket because he feared Chuck E. Cheese, the Mouse. He was looking over his shoulder the entire time we were at Chuck E Cheese, keeping an eye out for the giant mouse.

Now I sit here listening to the baby cry. It’s painful, moreso because I know he’s not feeling well. He’s congested, has a fever and most likely is finding it hard to sleep because it’s hard to breathe. Usually we let him cry it out but I’m not sure if I will hold to that tonight, as much as I want him to sleep on his own.

He just quieted down somewhat.

The hubby is on his iPad. We’re watching the history channel to his delight. I’m a little preoccupied with my birthday gift that my amazing mother bought me. I just opened the box she sent today. The Nook. What gets me giddy is all the discounted books I can download and have at my fingertips. The bookworm within me shouts for joy. Though, of course, the Nook will never take the place of an actual book in my mind and heart, I do love the convenience of being able to get a book almost instantly.

Nice.

It was a good day. The older boys are sleeping soundly, exhausted. Here’s wishing the same for my sick little one. I think I’m going to go check on him now.

This is a day I had about two weeks ago. It is recorded in my 365 blog journal - a daily journal that I have been keeping to record those daily moments, thoughts and happenings. Feel free to visit.

Found - A Handkerchief

I walked into a huge room - the master bedroom. More browns and beiges, dark woods made up the dresser and tall wardrobe standing across from the bed.

I made every effort to be quiet as I walked past the king size bed towards the closet. Though I knew there was no one else in the house, I still didn't want to take the chance of being caught. The closet stretched the length of half the room. It had two dark mahagony wood panelled doors, each with a square shaped knob on it. I opened both doors to the elaborate closet. Beautiful, expensive suits in browns and blacks hung neatly, one behind the other. Above on the shelf, boxes were arranged in a row. I figured they held ties, tie pins, cuff links and the such. I grabbed the first box and began my search. I was right. The tie pins, the cuff links were arranged neatly in this box - ornate items, all in metallic shades of bronze and gold. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I put the first box back and grabbed the second. In it were more ties, neatly folded of various striped, paisley and criss-cross patterns. Digging through, once again, nothing out of the ordinary. I went through two more boxes with the same result.

I put the last box back on the shelf and found it wouldn't go all the way in. It was hitting against something. I pulled it off and reached my hand up, putting it on the shelf, feeling around. I felt another box - a little smaller than the others and pulled it down.

I put the larger box I had in my hand back and focused in on this one. I pulled off the lid and noticed the usual that I had been finding. I rifled through, my mind half on the task at hand and half on what I should concentrate on next in this investigation when I touched on a white handkerchief with gold trim. There were initials embroidered on one corner: SK. SK?

Things suddenly became crystal clear. I pored eagerly through the rest of the contents of the box - two gold cuff links with the same initials of SK engraved on them, a silk tie, and lastly a gold watch. I looked it over on the outside, then on the inside. Engraved on the inside were the words: "To my youngest son, Solomon Keith...". A shot of adrenaline went through me. I was still clutching the handkerchief.

Solomon Keith Guthrie. The latest victim of the Crescent City serial killer.

I had finally hit the jackpot. My hunch had been right and the house I now stood in belonged to a killer. I shook my head, a huge grin spreading across my face.

I had the proof I needed. Now to cinch this case.

This post is in response to a prompt at Red Writing Hood that asks to write about finding a lost article of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet including information on how the item was found, what it is, and why it's so meaningful to you or your character.

"Just Because I Love You" Day

On this Valentine's day or as our family likes to call it "Just Because I Love You" Day (borrowed from an episode of 'Team Umizoomi' - a Nick Jr. television show), because we remember and are grateful for the love that we have for each other.

A previous conversation:

The 5 year old, "Do you love me, Mommy?"

Me: "Yes, I love you."

The 5 year old, "Do you love me, Rhys?"

The 3 year old, "Yes, I love you, Noah. Do you love me, Daddy?"

The Dad: "Yes, I love you, Rhys. And I love Noah and Owen and Mommy..."

The 5 year old turns to the baby: "Awww...you love me, Owen?" The baby just grins.

Me: "I think he does love you..."

The 3 year old, "And I love Chelsea the Cat..."

Me (to the cat) : "Hear that, Chelsea. Someone loves you. Aren't you lucky?" Of course, we all love her...but it's just that the 3 year old seems to always remember his love for her, in opposed to the rest of the family, who either is too preoccupied to remember we love her or doesn't quite know what loving his cat is all about yet (that would be the baby).

But that's one thing, hubby and I feel like we can do as people and as parents, love often and love well. If we're not successful at giving our kids anything else, it's the thing we want them to get from us. We want them to know that they are loved - just because, and for no other talent, quality or reason. That's one skill we would love to get the gold medal for. The one thing, if they have to choose one thing their parents did for them growing up that was successful, it was this - that we loved them well.

Which with our kiddos (and with each other), it's not that hard. Okay, most times it's not...

Here's wishing you the best "Just Because I Love You" Day ever.

I Could Never Have Imagined...

I could never have imagined that I would be driving in a car with the son of the man I loved. That I would be dating a man with a child. Children were a deal breaker for me but then love does things to your mind, to your resolve.

"My father loves you, you know," Cameron says. Cameron is the thirteen year old son of my current boyfriend, Alex. We are driving home from a movie. It was good bonding time for Cameron and me. At Cameron's words, I grip the steering wheel as my heart does a little flip. I focus on the road in front of me.

"He loved Amber, too," I say. Amber was Alex's ex-girlfriend of 5 years.

"True."

"Your father loves easily."

"Is that so bad?"

I shrug. "I guess not, if you look at it in a certain light." It is what makes Alex such a natural romantic - I think.

"Love is good," Cameron says.

"It is. You're lucky to have a Dad who adores you."

"I know. Though he can get a little crazy sometimes. All nervous and sensitive over nothing, you know?"

"Well, you know those actor types," I joke. Alex is an actor.

Cameron laughs. We often joke about his Dad's profession.

"Or should I say those Dad types," I added.

Cameron chuckles and I smile. Suddenly the image of my father - tall, brown-skinned in his long, black wool coat appears before me. Sadness pools in my chest. Suddenly I am seeing my mother with her long, straight hair with the golden brown highlights standing next to him. They are dressed in their Sunday finest. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes. Funny, how clearly I remember them, fifteen years after they died.

They had loved me just as much as Cameron's dad loved him - with that fierce, fierce love. And I loved them back just as fiercely. I was their only child.


Suddenly, I realize in the moment that I love Alex just that strongly and that I am truly beginning to love Cameron in that way, too. I haven't felt a love like that for anyone since my parents. I smile at my Mom's gentle face as she smiles back at me. I could hear a voice.

"Kayla! Kayla!" It is Cameron.

"Kayla, watch out! That guy's driving right towards us!"

The vision of my parents clears and I see a white Ferrari speeding towards us in our lane. He is going the wrong way.

What? I turn the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve to the right, off the road and onto hard dirt. The car jumps a little, then hits something hard. I feel a vibration through the steering wheel and the car begins to flip over. I think of Alex.

Then the whole world shifted.

This is in response to a writing prompt at Red Writing Hood : to write a piece using no more than 600 words, beginning with the words, "I could never have imagined" and end it with the words "Then the whole world shifted."

Constructive criticism welcomed.

Feels A Little Like High School...An Update

Well, I have to say...I am overwhelmed...with bloggy love and encouragement. I didn't realize my post of two days ago would generate so much feedback. I'm still a bit stunned.


Sorry this not coming to you sooner. Real life got in the way - a sick baby, a sick preschooler, a sick hubby, school projects, etc. I'm sure you can all relate. Life gets in the way. You know it's funny what happens when you get what you wish for. I just wanted to be read by fellow bloggers and to get comments when they do and here I received about 75+ of your gorgeous comments in one day! Now comes finding the time to respond through all the other things that pop up in one's day. There in lies the reality. But it's a cool reality (though a bit stressful in moments) and I can't wait to pop by and visit with you soon.

I have to say a wonderful "thank you" to The Empress...for her gentle heart and her desire to encourage this newbie. She is definitely "cool" people. Also, thanks to all of you who responded for all your lovely comments and advice and for wrapping your virtual arms around me. The advice - So helpful. I'm feeling a bit more equipped now. Have a little game plan going...will be picking your brains for more advice as I continue to navigate through these blog waters...

More importantly, thanks for all your honesty and vulnerability when it came to sharing. I have to say more than ever, I really do feel like I'm part of new-found community. To be able to share like this, and have what I've expressed be understood and not shot down. It's encouraging to know that I am not the only one who can feel this way at times. The empathy means so much - more so than even the advice - which I am taking and will gladly take, by the way. :-))

Like in high school - in rare moments - when I found that group of friends, I had the sense that I belonged - that it was a good fit. Thanks to your comments, I'm feeling this way again - having found a group of new blog friends. I feel we're just clicking which leaves me excited because I get to visit you on your blogs and build on our blog friendship.

Thanks again for stopping by and putting in your 2 cents. This girl appreciates it. And look for me, because I definitely will be popping by to visit with you soon, because as I mentioned two days ago, reading new blogs and making new blog friends just makes me giddy.


I can't wait to come knocking at your "door".

Feels A Little Like High School...

I have to confess: having this blog feels a little like high school all over again.

I'm excited to read new blogs and make new blog friends. I'm amazed that I have a new community of people that I am now in contact with. I love checking out new blogs and seeing the unique, creative designs that bloggers come up with. That gets me giddy because I love good design. I am constantly showing different blogs to my Design Director hubby and pointing out what I like in each (it's a very cool perk to have a graphic designer as a husband).

And yet, there are moments, where like back in high school, I feel left out. On the fringe. I've made some wonderful blog friends, but I still feel like the girl who wants to be a part of the "accepted" cool group but can't find a way to get in. I'm not cool enough to have people read my blog or if they read, comment. I'm not important enough.

I find myself dealing with the temptation of trying to make my blog cooler and more like everyone else's. I find myself wondering if there are some hidden blog rules that I don't know about that I'm breaking - could that be the reason why I'm on the fringes? At least this is the thought that runs through my mind in moments.

I find myself wondering if I should change my blog and essentially and aspects of myself (since my blog reflects my personality) in order to be read more/accepted more/important enough to warrant a comment. Maybe I'm too personal - not universal, enough? (Feel free to add your 2 cents, on this one). Should I focus more on being cooler and more appealing - writing on more popular, provocative topics? Hmmm...maybe. Is that the answer?

Even as I write this, I can think of a couple blog friends who I wish would comment on my blog more often or if at all. When they don't I can't help but wonder if I'm just not important or "cool" enough for them to spend the minute or two to read or even comment. Especially when I see their comments on other people's blogs - you know, the ones that have the over 400+ followers.

Hubby reminds me from time to time why I started this blog in the first place: as a place to share my thoughts, to chronicle my life, to keep my writing consistent so that my writing can get better. Most importantly, so that I can stay in my element, as a writer, because honestly writing is so much a part of me, like (this is slightly corny) breathing. But really, like breathing. I need to blog or journal of some sort, so that I remain in that element. I need something like this to ground me since the days can be a whirlwind of busyness and distraction with things that are so far from writing.

So why then do I at times find myself getting caught up in wanting to be a part of the blog "in-crowd" if there is such a thing. I wouldn't know. I feel so out of it sometimes - totally naive of the blog world -that I have moments where I think I'm missing something. I mean, I still don't even know how to put links in my posts. Like I would love to give big love with links to their blogs to the blog friends that have been amazing and encouraging to me like Cheryl at Mommypants and Mrs. M. at Mothering Mayhem, Alexandra at Good Day, Regular People, and Lady Jennie at A Lady in France to name a few but I still don't know how to put links in my entries. How do I do that, by the way? What is this girl missing?

So are these the insecurities that come with being a new blogger or is there some truth to the idea of a blog "in-crowd"? Is this part of the reality as I navigate through these blog waters or is this all in my mind? (Feel free to answer, you more experienced bloggers).

In the meantime, like in high school, I'll just keep moving along, interacting and making new friends where I can and spending time with current ones as I battle my insecurities. Letting the excitement of visiting blogs - current and new ones - and checking out their unique designs and wonderful posts be my motivation as well as the satisfaction and fulfillment I get when I write and share one of my own posts.

Because you know, that makes me giddy. And "giddy" trumps "insecurity" any day.

Has anyone felt like this when it comes to blogging? Is there a blog "in-crowd"? How do you cope with the insecurities? Definitely share, this new blogger would love to know...

What Kind Of Plane Does A Rabbit Fly?

“Mommy, what kind of plane does a rabbit fly?” 5 year old Nate asks. He wiggles excitedly.


Dana smiles wearily as she watches him. He couldn’t wait to tell her. It was obvious. She looks over at 3 year old, Reese, sitting across from Nate, rolling his tanker truck around in a circle. The very opposite of his brother, Reese is quietly engrossed in his own game.


Dana sighs and shifts ten-month old, Ian, from her left hip to her right. She dips her head out of the way of her baby’s chubby, wet-from-drool fingers as he tries to reach for her long braid.


“What?” she asks as she reaches up into the kitchen cabinet and pulls out the blue box of pasta off the shelf.


“A hare plane!” Nate shouts, cracking himself up. His laughter echoes throughout the room as he spins in a circle. “A hare plane!” He then starts jumping up and down.


“Ahhh…” Dana says, sighs again and turns back to the stove.


Of course - she thinks. She smiles as she moves the pot of water she filled five minutes ago onto the stove. She then turns around again and faces her excited son.


“Very funny joke,” she says, trying to be encouraging as she dips her head, yet again away from her baby’s fingers. If only she could put him down for a few minutes without him fussing – she thinks.


She watches as Nate continues jumping up and down all over the family room like a deranged monkey. He begins traveling the length of the small family room. He stops abruptly and screams “Whoa!” as he steps on a small red fire truck toy. The truck pops up from under his foot, sails across the space and hits Reese in the forehead, bouncing off and finally landing on the floor next to him.


Reese freezes, then grabs his forehead with both hands. His eyes scrunch close as his mouth goes wide.


Dana sighs inwardly. No.


“Aaaah….” Reese begins to wail. “Aaah!”


“Ugh,” Dana groans.


She walks away from the stove and out of the kitchen as Ian yanks her braid.


“Ow!” she shouts.


“Get it, Mommy, get it? A hare plane.” Nate starts spinning around in a circle again.


Dana places the baby in his playpen, delicately untangling his fingers from her hair.


She walks over to the wailing Reese and pulls him into her arms. She starts rocking him gently.

“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay.” She gently moves his hands away and rubs the injured spot. She then leans forward and kisses it.


“Mommy? A hare plane! Isn’t that funny?” Nate asks. “Isn’t it?”


“Yes!” Dana says, impatiently. “I get it. I get it. Nate, you just hit Reese in the forehead with the fire truck. Can you say ‘sorry’?”


“Sorry, Reese! A hare plane, Mommy. A hare plane!” He cracks up again, his laughter filling the room as Reese’s wails grow louder, competing with the laughter as if in a dueling sound war.


The wall of sound surrounding her, Dana sighs again and shakes her head, as she continues to rock the wailing Reese. She looks towards the clock on the microwave oven.

Only two hours to bedtime – she thinks. Two hours – please come quick!

This post is in response to a writing prompt over at Red Writing Hood.



Just A Little Personal...

I've decided to embark on another 365 project: a personal journal. I have been journaling for years and have somewhat been on hiatus for the last 6 months - writing down entries here and there on my home computer. I have a file for just such entries. But today, on February 1st, I've decided to recommit myself to keeping a daily journal once again - one that I will write in every day. One that will reflect my daily life - the ups and downs; the blessings, the storms (hopefully not too many of those); the little moments which I believe I can only preserve if I write them down every day. The difference with this new journal is that I'm putting it in a blog which means my eyes won't be the only ones seeing it from time to time. Somehow I believe it will help me stay consistent keeping my journal in this format. I also believe that what is the point of living life, if you can't share it.

So a warning: I may do just that - from time to time, share some of those personal journal entries here, on my main blog.

Below is the first entry: Day 1 of my 365 personal journal:

Day 1 February 1, 2011: 3 Degrees Below Zero

We’re below zero here today. It’s so cold that school districts around Colorado have closed their schools. Ours - the Boulder Valley School District - has followed suit so both my 5 year old and my 3 year old are home from school. It’s kind of like a snow day but moe because it’s a cold day.

Of course while I was in the midst of writing this, my 3 year old who is supposed to be napping, runs out of his room and to the table where my 5 year old is playing games on the computer. I’m in my bedroom wondering why he is out of his. He can only leave it if it’s for one reason: he needs to go potty. I leave my bedroom to ask him what is going on and no sooner do I say the word ‘potty’ he pees on himself. That familiar frustration sweeps through me and I can’t help but be annoyed. I really don’t want to be annoyed. The fact that he didn’t go straight to the bathroom is the primary source of my annoyance.

“You know better!” are the words that come out of my mouth. I know better too not to get too upset but then I do. Of course there were tears on his end and guilt mixed in with a little frustration on my end. My frustration aimed partly at myself for getting so upset at my child - especially this child who is the most happy-go-lucky child 95% of the time. I don’t want to do anything to ruin that joyful disposition of his.

He’s back in his room now - most likely sleeping. All is quiet on that side of the house as my 10 month old sleeps in his room (thank goodness!). My 5 year old is asleep in my bed across from me. All is quiet on this side of the house as well. A rarity. Thank you, God for these unexpected quiet moments. I’m tempted to unhook the phone. These quiet moments are too special to ruin.

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