Saturday, March 31, 2012

Warning! Propaganda Proudly Posted Here!

Feminist and  political activist Naomi Wolf, author of  The Beauty Myth, has called for a boycott of the new Katy Perry video, Part of Me.  This was posted on her facebook page,

"Have you all seen the Katy Perry Marines video? It is a total piece of propaganda for the Marines...I really want to find out if she was paid by them for making is truly shameful. I would suggest a boycott of this singer whom I really liked -- if you are as offended at this glorification of violence as I am."
Really Ms. Wolf?

We are not Katy Perry fans at our house. I would even say that in the past we have suffered from Katy Perry loathing. But this time around we felt differently. Littlest asked me to post this video a week ago and I hadn't got around to it yet. I was waiting for a way to work it in. Thanks Ms. Wolf.

I am appalled that a woman who claims she stands for empowerment of women would vilify this performer and video because of her own political views. Not to mention, characterizing the Marine Corp. as a violent institution as though it were a street gang engaged in arbitrary violence. Or could it really be that she thought she sensed a smidgen of patriotism in the video? A far as I can tell the song is about taking control of your own life , realizing and utilizing your strength.

Apparently joining the Marines is a bad role model for young women while the sexualization of them usually found in Ms. Perry's work is A-OK. Perhaps Ms. Wolf  prefers Katy Perry's song about being a teenage dream in skin tight jeans. Being a party girl is the road to self fulfillment. Gee, how did I miss that when I was teaching my daughters that they are strong, smart and capable of achieving anything. We better run out and buy some thongs and a keg, post haste. I've been doing it wrong.

I would like to say to Ms. Wolf that at this point in her life my youngest daughter is planning to join the Marines. She is making this decision with knowledge of her own power and beauty as a woman. A decision she is making with the help of role models serving our country in all of the armed forces. Real women of strength and beauty. I'm proud to say she doesn't know who you are. At least not yet. She isn't up yet. She's a little worn out from her class last night in how to protect herself from violence. Oh yeah, and possibly protect others from it too. And if she ultimately decides to, someday maybe she will be protecting her country from it as well. Protecting the lives of our people. Protecting our freedom. Protecting our speech. Even people like you Ms. Wolf.

Who is really spouting propaganda here? I say we boycott the BS.

and HUZZAH to Ms. Perry.

© 2012 All Rights Reserved by MOTPG

**Note: Yeah, I know. Be careful not to drown in the bubbles. As a rule, I Never get controversial on this blog. Just chalk this up to going out on a limb carved with the words, "Now you done pissed me off".....and I quit taking my estrogen because it was making me gain weight. Contrary ; ) points of view are welcome. Just ignore it if I burst into tears.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

We Got The Blues

Last week was spring break. Since Middlest 'grew up', shopping has become more sedate around here and Littlest and I did what moms and teenagers do. We went shopping for summer clothes and Prom!  As a group we have all always felt that a long dress is most appropriate for prom. The first dress she chose was a  short, form fitting sheath and it looked amazing on her.  Very simple and elegant. But she thought she should go fancier. Well. Littlest tried on long, full, puffy, hitched up, jacked down, sleek, ruffled, bejeweled, glittered, and sequined. With each dress her frustration grew.  Lit is short and compact. She has an excellent figure and she is tight and muscular. She has phenomenal legs. There is nothing frail or ethereal about her.  She would stomp out of the dressing room with comments such as, "this looks ridiculous, this is hideous, this is skanky", and my favorite, "I look like a freakin cupcake." I stood outside the dressing room chuckling to myself because recently my friend Nicole at Help Mama Remote wrote a post that mentioned the possibility of Promzilla's. To which I blithely commented something along the lines of, I was glad that would never happen with my girls. *snicker*...feel free to snicker at me here { *******} : ) But thankfully, when I borrowed the phrase, 'Promzilla', things quieted down considerable. After the 4th store Littlest realized that long, full, puffy, hitched up, jacked down, sleek, ruffled, bejeweled, glittered, and sequined were just not for her and we returned to the first store for the very first dress she tried on. It was perfect. As Middlest said when Lit modeled it for her,
"God Lit, You're a knockout!" Yes, she is.

Not long ago I mentioned that Littlests' doctor suspected she had a stress fracture in her arm and Littlest was very upset because there was a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu tournament coming up. Well. She had a recheck and they still saw no sign of a fracture. By last week it seemed to be fine and so she said:

 "Nothing is going to stop me!"

And nothing did.

 This plaque was placed on her trophy.
A very Awesome Samurai Sword sheathed in Royal Blue.

But the best part?

It matches her prom dress perfectly ; )

Littlest took down two tough competitors without any points scored against her. They were both older than her and one outweighed her by at least 20 pounds. She was phenomenal. Especially when you consider she has been doing this less than a year. Her instructor calls her a natural. During her fights the guys she trains with, all men including 4 giant bald men covered in tattoo's, were cheering her on and taking pictures. Which just tickled me : ) She's like their little sister. Her instructor had been stuck in Brazil because of a canceled flight and when the guys sent him a text telling him Lit won her division, he replied asking them to tell her that when he gets back, she gets her Blue Belt. She deserved it. Hmm, wonder how it will look with the dress...

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Thursday, March 22, 2012

Road Tripping...Me Out

I think that when you travel by car you can see a microcosm story of life. I always wonder about the people in very small towns. How did they get there? What is their life like? What are they like? But the answers might be right in front of me. Little clues left on the side of the road. It's possible that human nature, and my nature, can be witnessed without ever leaving my vehicle.

I've been traveling a lot lately. Our work normally covers three adjoining states, so when we have an out of town project we drive. My husband doesn't like interstates. He hates the lack of change. The semis. I hate the semis. So whenever possible we take the back roads. My parents often did the same. When I was a child I would lie in the back seat and read. If we were traveling to Pennsylvania to see my sister, I would tell them, "Let me know when you see the mountains." The southern states held no draw for me. I don't hide in back anymore but oftentimes on these trips I reach for my bag and pull out my book. Lower my head. I know he'll let me know if he sees something interesting.  It's just when I see the long stands of everlasting pine trees. Identical. One after the other, the base slippered in palmetto scrub. Within the car with a regulated cold breeze blowing I watch the side of the road.  I know the feel of the crackly brown grass and crunch of pine needle interspersed with the white sandy soil in small break through clumps. I know the still, overbearing heat of that forest. The feel of that sand, hot and sticky in my shoes. The relative coolness of the needles. I know the fact that in the middle of a summer day no amount of shade those pines produce would cool me. We pass a blackened, charred acre of fire remnants. I agree with the view. The scent of hardened pine sap, heart of the conflagration, infiltrates the interior of the car and I know in my soul the sucking of oxygen, the suffocation of that heat. I pull out my book.

The shoulders of the road depress me. Carcasses litter the white line. Wild creatures, sometimes still recognizable. Maybe not so attractive to begin with, like Armadillo. The peaked white face of opossum, a striped raccoon tail, the only part of a lump still intact and occasionally a deer. That moment of question. "Is that a dog?" It's large, no, the tan coat gives away the waste. Sometimes it is a dog. Heartbreaking thoughts fill my imagination. Someone opens a back door, calling with no response. Someone heartlessly opening a car door and speeding away. I catch my breath, "Oh no. That was a kitty." Sometimes even worse are the  discarded pets that still live. They return to my memory time and again. Emaciated hounds sniffing along roadside trash. Lost on the hunt. Small creatures running haphazardly in zig zags, searching. In a long stretch of unpopulated state road in South Carolina you suddenly come upon a crossroad. Marked by a single small store with gas pumps. The parking lot full with pick ups, road crew trucks and tractor trailers. A lovely red and white spaniel, her flowing fur does not disguise the horrific site of her ribs, sharp and clearly defined at her sides,  though her teats are full and dragging low with milk. She cautiously inches toward a  big rig parked alongside the building. My heart swells. A hand reaches out the window and waits, while with head lowered, eyes upraised, one tiny step at a time she approaches. Finally the arm arcs a half eaten sandwich,. It lands at her feet and she grabs it quickly, looking up for a moment at the kind trucker and wagging her tail before scurrying back towards the woods. How did she get here? Where are the puppies? Why was she so full? Are they dead? Was she dumped without them? I'll never know but my heart broke that we were packed without an inch of room and even if we were not, we had a deadline. Didn't even know if she could be won over. I cried. I hoped that having found this store someone would care for her. I think about her every time I travel. If I pass that way again I will be searching the edge of the woods. Looking. Hoping.

The animals aren't the only heartache. As we reach the outskirts of small towns they begin to pop up. Almost every bend in the road like a monument to human misery. Rounding the corners revealing the signs. Simple white crosses. Sometimes with a name painted on them. Or posts with a circle inscribed, Drive Safely. Ringed with flowers and occasionally stuffed animals. The more recent bearing zip locked cards and messages, fogged with dew. These markers are commonplace in my home town. I'm used to them. Many are familiar landmarks in my daily drive but nothing more. In some cases I know what happened. A testament told on the evening news. But these markers standing out on lonely country roads seem to hold more grief. They often mark the entrance to the return of human habitation. Tiny communities. These markers call to mind a whole town grieving. Places so small that every person who passes may know the whole story. May have known the person lost. A friend, a co worker, a relative. A sad reminder in a place where truly, everybody knows your name. Again my imagination fires. Bored teenagers in a town with no place to go, racing through the night for thrills? Old Mr. So & So from the mill, blearily winding his way home from the ramshackle No Name Bar and drifting off the road? Mrs. Such & Such coming home late from bible study and swerving to avoid one of those poor raccoons she always hates seeing squished in the road?

But that isn't all of course. The pines begin to filter out and you know there is water nearby. A lake. a river. Giant spreading oaks might mark the beginning of humanity returning. Hand lettered signs announcing tomato's, fruit, nuts For Sale up ahead. In early spring fields open revealing sprigs of some sort of crop, which we might guess at. Is that cotton? Corn? Strawberries? Rows of majestic Pecan Trees mark the edge of a sprawling farm. Horses, goats, I hear my mothers echo, Look at the cows!" No wait, that's my husband. He smirks, knowing my family's private joke on me. I see the damn cows.  My husband and I have a game. We guess which store the next town will frequent, A Family Dollar or Dollar General Store. If both show up we know we are in a good sized place. There might even be a fast food restaurant. Always, even if there is just one, there is a Chinese restaurant. Without fail. Even in the tiniest places. I love the local businesses in these small towns. Susie's Beauty World contained within in a small pink clapboard house. Joe Joe's Best Barbecue. The sign peeling and faded but the smoker in the parking lot is going full on. It smells heavenly.
Mama Mary's southern fried chicken. You know that would be heavenly too. Bo's Fish camp. Dottie's Special Occasion Flowers. And of course, Tiny Town Thrift. There is never a lack of church. Baptist leads the numbers in the south. First Baptist. Missionary Baptist. Primitive Baptist. First Pentecostal Missionary Baptist. But there is always a healthy scattering of other denominations. White steepled Methodist. A fairly modern peaked roof Lutheran. A rather fancy brick Presbyterian and the occasional Catholic. All of them with messages of hope neatly lettered on their front lawn welcome signs.
You see the most interesting things in 'the middle of nowhere.' I recently saw a Cherokee Seminole meeting circle. A huge confederate flag marked the entrance to another fenced compound bearing a large sign: Sons of the Confederacy, Join Now! No thanks. But just when you think you've warped back a few decades you see something unexpected. In a place that you would swear still lives in the 1930's we suddenly happen on a huge yoga retreat camp. On a tiny block building deep in farm country a bright yellow banner joyously invites, Join Zumba Fitness Now!
Then there are the roads. So many named after people. J.R. Smith Lane. Nancy M. Cotton Ave. Who are they? How did they warrant a street name? Some of them are dirt roads that appear to be deserted and leading absolutely nowhere. Cemetery Road and Old Mill Lane speak for themselves of course, but last week I saw Old Soldier Road. I liked that one. I would like to know the story.
 Last week we passed through a town called Enigma. Only a few scattered buildings could be seen from the road. We did pass a road sign for Main Street with an arrow pointing to the Post Office but that's all we saw. I was intrigued. I want to live in a town called Enigma. Then again, the enigma may be how did these people got here and what exactly are they doing here? It took all of 5 minutes to pass the town.

 I often wonder how these people came to be here. Tiny places. Sometimes huge sprawling homes and fenced land abutting worn trailers with rusting cars and toys strewn through the yard. Tiny houses neatly painted white with carefully planted flower beds and the yards decorated with miniature windmills, iron deer and doll sized gazebos resting just feet from the road. Homes built on quiet country lanes, later widened for the convenience of civilization. The front porch holds a rocker and I imagine a woman sitting there trying to catch a breeze at the end of the day. Staring with satisfaction at the gee gaws and ignoring the intrusion of traffic that they distract from. The personality of the residents sometimes breaks through the hum drum ride and it's always worth it. I know of a place where a house, that can't be bigger than two rooms, sports a front yard with a three story flagpole sporting an enormous American Flag waving over a life size statue of Jesus with his arms outstretched, patiently watching over the traffic. I feel honored and blessed as I pass. Is that what the resident wants to say? I don't know. But it works for me. Many years ago, driving alongside cow pastures in Vermont I saw a mobile home completely painted like a black and white cow with a mailbox to match. Driving through a another town I see an old house in bad need of repair. Sagging porch, peeling paint. An old wooden business sign stood in front, it's original message long ago faded away but fresh spray paint tagged an new one, Happy Birthday Mom with a Smiley Face). I imagine Mom's smile when she came home. I see her tired and walking slow with sore feet at the end of the day and looking up to see this message of love. Maybe there was cake too. I've seen mailboxes shaped like sharks, personal diatribes written on buildings and fences made of bicycles. But last week I think I saw my all time favorite.  We rounded a deep bend in the road, passing a worn looking yellow house set under huge ancient oaks. The deep shade and time of day made it blend to almost invisible but at the last moment it caught my eye. I had to do a double take because to my surprise, beneath the tall trees stood a full size topiary brontosaurus. Perfectly executed just a couple yards from the road. It reminded me. People live in many different ways. We come from myriad goals and walks of life. It added to my question of,  how do people end up here? I don't know that but I know this for sure. Regardless of how or why they land where they do, some people are a trip. And make it a trip worth taking.

© 2012 All Rights Reserved by MOTPG

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Thursday, March 15, 2012

The Daisy Picker

A Parenting Fail. Or. A Public Service Announcement. However you like to take it.

 Middlest was a fairly quiet child. Even before she could read you could often find her with a book. Once she could read you could always find her with her nose buried in a book. And I do mean literally buried in a book. A head with hair and ears and a book jacket for features. Literally inches from the book.  But she also was pretty active. She wasn't the most graceful child on land but she loved swimming particularly. And when she showed interest we signed her up for T-Ball. She was pretty good at it too...because, honestly...who isn't good at T-Ball? But she always hit the ball.

When she was six she moved up to softball. She enjoyed herself. After all, for part of the game you get to sit on a bench and then there was snack afterward. But truly. She did enjoy it when it was her turn to hit. Until the girls were old enough for junior league they used a pitching machine. At first, just like the other girls,  Mid had a little trouble adjusting. Keep your eye on the ball, the coach would shout. The pitches came in true and unvaried most of the time and before long Middlest was very consistent in her batting. "Keep your eye on the ball,  they said. And she did. Then she would run. Looking down at her feet she would follow the clay trail from base to base. stopping at each one and looking up to listen and see if she was being cheered on to continue. Was the baseman holding a ball? No? She industriously lowered her head and chugged on. "Keep you eye on the ball," her dad, a base coach, advised. You need to pay attention so you know where it is while you're running bases. She nodded.  On the next run glancing about the field as she approached each base and then stopping and listening before going on. "Keep your eye on the ball!", we called from the stands. Then it was time for the fielding. In practice the coaches tried different variations and before long Middlest was neatly parked... in the outfield.  At the beginning she would stand staunchly, with her hands resting on her knees,  her cap set firmly, her glove at the ready.  After a few minutes passed she would be looking at the ground. She would be stooping and picking at grass, neatly disassembling little white clover flowers.. She would be staring, squinting hard at the sky. Keep your eye on the ball! we all would shout, the ball floating neatly over her shoulder while she peered in our direction. What? Me? The ball! The ball! her team would echo. As she whirled around, searching in every direction, the ball would be rolling toward the fence, usually with the 2cd baseman in pursuit. As they came up to the dugout,  the coach would tell her, Middy, you need to pay attention, ok? Middlest would nod happily, was it time for Rice Krispie Treats yet? Her team mates would get frustrated with her and join in the calls, Mid, Look! Get the ball! But she was a nice girl and these were nice girls too. They didn't harass her. The entire team just learned  to work around her.  With one exception. Somewhere along the way they realized she made a great catcher. No fear of the bat or ball coming toward her at all.  And she loved that she didn't have to run after the ball. It was always coming straight for her. So Yes. Its true. In ther field my child was...A Daisy Picker. A sure thing at bat but the rest of the time appeared to forget she was in the middle of the game. You need to pay attention, we would advise. Your team counts on you. "I hate the field she said. It's too hard. I can't keep up with what's going on. "Keep your eye on the ball", we said. For three years.

In School Middlest was a very good student. She breezed through first and second grade. She never seemed to have trouble. Well, except the teachers complaints that she always had her nose in a book. Often when she should have been watching the board she would be caught deep in the adventures Of Redwall. But, her teachers loved her reading and usually would patiently come to her desk and go over the assignment if necessary. Until 3rd Grade. About halfway through the year her very experienced veteran teacher approached me. Have you had Middlest's eyes checked recently? She did the school eye exam, I told her. She passed it. Well, she said, I think maybe you should take her for a real eye exam. I don't think she can see the board. Really? Wow! She never said anything about it. Her grades were always good. As we walked to the car I asked her, Mid, can you see the board ok? Yes, she replied. I can see it fine. Hmm. You need to pay better attention in class. Ms. Teacher thinks you can't see. I'm paying attention, she replied. Well. Just to be safe. I made the appointment.

And. My eight year old child was severely myopic. Near sighted. She could barely see past the length of her arm. She had probably been like that her whole life. We had missed the very subtle clues. She couldn't tell us because she had no idea that the world around her wasn't a muddled mess of fuzzy colors. I'll never forget the look on her face the day she reached out for her first shiny, purple wire frames and set them over her nose and ears and looked around the optometrists office. The word here is WONDER. She walked to the windows and peered out at the sun lit trees and cars going past with a smile of amazement. Like an alien just landing on the planet. In a way she was.

Want to talk about guilt? How on earth could that child be legally blind without glasses and I had no clue? I was a hyper vigilant mom. How did I miss this? Like I said, the signs were very subtle. She had managed to adjust to her surrounding so well over the years that she was functional on a high level.

At school: She went to a very good preschool: She was advanced in some skills that helped her coast. Also blackboard use was limited until things became more complicated in third grade. I also believe she was so used to things appearing the way they did that she recognized them in their weird form.( Just a theory.) If she was struggling a teacher would help her personally. Up close.

Outdoors: Our street was unpaved at that time, so things like bike riding were minimal. At ball the pitching machine was very predictable. She could hear the ball leave the machine and focus in the right direction until it came within her the exact moment she needed to swing.

Her personality:  Oblivious to her surroundings, to this day she still zones out and doesn't know what's going on regardless of how well she sees it ; ) Her mom was used to this and didn't question whether anything else was going on.

 Now the story could end with her becoming the most valuable player on her team. A ferocious fielder. A pitcher with a lethal arm and record outs. But. Over the years the other girls had progressed where she had been unable to. The truth is, Middlest is a Daisy Picker. It's her nature. She'd rather lay in the grass and watch bugs than stand in it waiting for a ball to come her way. By fifth grade she decided to play cello instead.  She can still be found with her nose in a book. She has become a talented artist. Still...I do have one picture that I love. My Mid at a game. She is coming off a base, her feet in motion. One knee raised in a solid pump forward. Underneath her batting helmet her face is raised with a joyful expression. Her eyes are bright behind the lenses of her purple glasses and looking outward at the field. Watchful. 

She is watching the ball.

So the moral to the story is:

Keep your eye on your kids. Or. Get their eyes checked regularly. However you like to take it : )

© 2012 All Rights Reserved by MOTPG

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Hair Cuts, Orca's and Stress Fractures.

Or: How's the moon treatin ya Ms. G ?

Biggest Called. She said:

What are you doing?

Me: Making dinner. Why?

Big: I need you to cut all my hair off! Right Now!

Me: I'm cutting meat right now but...ok.

Big: I'm coming over right now because if I wait I'll chicken out.

Me: Why do you suddenly want your hair cut?

Big: Because I woke up this morning and I was trapped in bed. It wrapped around the bed post and I couldn't get up! It has to go NOW!

Me: ok Rapunzel, come on over. But you can't cry. No Crying.

I was terrified. Even giving her a trim can lead to hysterics.

Littlest asked what was going on and then proclaimed, No! She can't! Short hair Is My Thing!!

Me: Don't worry about it.

So she came. DecentGuy followed her in looking nervous. How short are you getting it, he kept asking. I want it all off, she answered, above my shoulders. I want it short. DecentGuy looked like he might cry. Not because he was worried about how her hair would look but because he would have to live with the repercussions. I'm not cutting it short I reassured him. Yes, you are, Biggest exclaimed, I want it all gone.
I said...ok..

Then I cut it to her shoulder blades. She said it wasn't short enough. So I took off another quarter inch.

She checked it in the mirror, swinging the waves flowing around the middle of her back.

It's short!

Me: Yes it is. Ok, she smiled, that's perfect. She showed DecentGuy, Look, it's short! DecentGuy looked very relieved and humored her too agreed with her. And she didn't cry!

Littlest was very relieved too because, of course no one is allowed to have short hair but her.
(I guess short hair in your mind doesn't count)

Unfortunately Middlest went behind my back a few weeks ago and Let Someone Cut Her Hair! I was outraged. The traitor. I had very good reason to refuse to cut her hair! It was pretty.

Littlest was outraged too one is allowed to have short hair but her. She ranted when Middlest came home with a mid neck bob. The only way to console her was to point out that she still had : The Shortest Hair. She was barely appeased but only because Middlest told her that no one hits on her anymore. Littlest thought this was a fairly good vindication, as she put it, Good! My Entire Life whenever we were together all the guys stared at you. Well, they don't anymore, replied Mid. Not even creepy losers hit on me now....sometimes homeless guys still do....

Once I started to get used to it I thought it was pretty cute but then she came to me yesterday and said, I think I might let my hair grow out....

I said: ok. Why don't they listen to their mother the first time?

At least she didn't cry. She did cry at Seaworld on Monday because the orca exhibit was still closed. A year ago she went with her Marine Science class and called me crying. She thought by now it would be open. Nope. So this time she called me crying and her boyfriend was there to enjoy it. I asked her if he thought she was nuts for crying about the whales. So she asked him if he thought she was nuts and he said, "not anymore than I did before." This one is obviously fitting right in around here.

Though Littlest complains about her hair and begs me to cut it again about every two weeks she has not cried about it. However she injured her arm a few weeks ago at jiu jitsu and it's not getting better. Her doctor couldn't find anything wrong when it first happened and said if it isn't better by next week we should come back for a second xray because a stress fracture sometimes takes a few weeks to show up. Yep. A hairline fracture. She was looking forward to her first big tournament on the 24th and her dad and her instructor ganged up on her yesterday to explain that she had to accept that if the doctor doesn't clear her next week she can't compete. And yes.. she cried. : {

Oh. Come to think of it, while he was here DecentGuy lifted his cap and HAH!! He Had Hair! Normal Hair!! I really wasn't sure because the last time I saw hair on him he was 16 and it was standing straight up in a Mohawk. I thought maybe he did permanent damage ; ) Or accidentally glued that cap to his head 9 years ago using Elmers to make that Mohawk work.

Things are pretty normal around here this month.

Moon Music

P.S. I will be traveling from 3/11 thru 3/14 and will not be able to reply to comments.
Catch Ya Later!
© 2012 All Rights Reserved by MOTPG

Monday, March 5, 2012

bzzzzt...bzzt.. bzzt

I arise early to start my day
I have lots of errands
No time to play
But for a change my car
Is sparkling to see
Because my Mid washed it for me
It's usually a dusty field
With kitty prints covering
the hood and windshield
I climb in at dawn with Lit by my side
It's too cold for bikes
She needs a ride
I turn my key and lo and behold
Bzzzt says the engine
Like a honey bee scold
I turn it again with heightening dread
Bzzt said the engine
That sucker was dead
I did lament how could this be?
Nothing was left on
That I could see
We get back out and I sighed
This is the third time
The dang thing has died.
We have a charger to hook it to
we charged it up and vroom
Good as new
It needed to run for a bit
To get the charge set
I'd have to drive to finish it
I cruised the neighborhood, said a prayer, lit some votive's
Watching for cops as I circled
who might question my motives.
When I came home it seemed to be fine
I could do all my errands
No need to whine
I had letters to mail and banking to do
And a pretty big list
for the grocery store too  
I hop in the car ready to go
Bzzzzt said the engine
Oh $#&%@..I mean Oh No!
I even called Mid hoping to find
a possible cause
For this bind
There's something that I need to know
Did you run the radio while you washed my car?
To which I heard...Ummm...No?
So I sit here waiting for The SeaMonkey to rescue me
Like a knight in shining armor
Bearing a New Car Battery
As I wait I sadly find
That concerning my day
I'm three hours behind
So if I don't visit today as I sit
Please know it's because
I'm having a fit
Bzzt says my brain I cannot get started
Bzzt bzzzt says my day
I'll skip the obvious bzzt rhyme for started.
I'm looking for some good vibes to borrow
Otherwise I think I'll
Start over tomorrow.

Vroom I go...

© 2012 All Rights Reserved by MOTPG

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