He’s A Lumberjack

And he’s okay…

I sing that song pretty much all day when he wears this shirt. Who can blame me?

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Dinkytown Vignettes

high fashion on your
10-speed with your
statement sandal and backpack

mod sunglasses protect your
long lashes over your
expressive eyes
looking in your hobo bag

——–

sipping a caramel latte
at an iron mesh table
smoking a wide-mouth
Camel in cuffed pants
contemplating that tree
living in a high-rise
with two guys
and a girl
striding away into a bleak future

——–

drummer boy
tall black pants and a ‘do rag
on a funny mo-ped
little wheels turn this
road well-traveled into
a highway to your
big break

Carolingian Minuscule

I came to a lovely realization two nights ago: I actually like my handwriting.  As a child, I would see friends’ beautiful cursive or fun, bubbly letters, or even the irregular, artsy print of my friend Jana, and be envious that my hands seemed incapable of producing anything but boy writing.  Lord, could you just…make this pretty? I would pray.
My mom gave me a couple of tubs full of school papers to go through when she was down in March, and I finally completed the task in June (I know, aren’t I efficient?).  It was fun to see kindergarten craft projects, dripping in glitter and cotton balls, juxtaposed with high school notebooks, filled with stickers and notes to friends.  And the college notebooks, with margins jam-packed with doodles (doodlers retain more information; did you know?) and pages of things that I will never remember and never need to remember.  Why did my mom save so much stuff?  I will never know.  I tossed about 9/10 of it, only saving “special” items, like my poetry, short stories, and newspaper articles of which I was especially proud.
Anyway, back to my point.  It still pained me to look at my elementary and high school printing.  My cursive has always been (still is) ugly, but the only time I utilize it is in writing cheques.  (Why must cheques be written in cursive? Is it some sort of law?)
While penning some thoughts in my prayer journal this weekend, however, I paused and looked at the page.  Hmmm…I thought, I actually don’t mind how my writing looks!  How novel!  After all these years!
How about you?  Do you like your handwriting/printing?  Why or why not?  Which do you use?  And if you don’t mind my asking, in which decade did you graduate?  I find that most people age 40ish and younger print, while those older still often use cursive (there are exceptions, of course).

Sometimes You Wanna Go…

You, my favorite internet peeps, may have noticed that Bad Poetry Mondays have disappeared.  And FS Fridays.  As much as I loved them, I think I am taking a different direction over the summer.  The excuses reasons?  I work Mondays, we travel a lot on Fridays during the summer, and as the weather has warmed (to an oh so beautiful 55 in Minnesota) I’ve found it harder to post as often as I used to.

In other random news, I was working out a bit later than usual tonight and caught a bit of the putrid filth that is The Bachelor.  I have never watched that show but have seen snippets here or there while at the gym.  Tonight happened to be the finale and the first part I’ve seen of this season.  Does anyone else find it repulsive to see a guy fawn over multiple women (and by fawn over I mean “make out passionately with”) up to the day before declaring his undying love for one of them?  ICK ICK ICK.  At any rate, of the two women I saw tonight, I thought he made the clearly better choice.  For what it’s worth, which is little.

The real point of this post is this.  I never watched the show “Cheers.”  I know some of the people who starred on it–Danny DeVito, Rhea Perlman, Ted Danson, Kirstie Alley, etc.  But I know the chorus of the theme song, and it rings very true in my heart.  “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name…and they’re always glad you came.”  That place isn’t a bar for me.  It’s the gym.  And not everyone knows my name, but most of the staff do.  And the other patrons know my face.  You know how when you’ve seen someone’s face a bunch of times, even if you’ve never spoken to each other, you feel like you would help each other out?  Maybe I’m alone in this, but I feel that way.

Bad Poetry Monday – 15

And some announcements at the end…

A Mother’s Treasures

She lifts the lid
To discover

Chubby hands exploring her own (upon examination) now-weathered thumb

Gentle sighs from tired lips

Kissable, soft cheeks hiding a delicate, ticklish neck

Shining eyes, so adoring

Giggles and wiggles meaning “Come play with me!”

She closes the lid and locks away
These treasures in her heart

————-

A couple of announcements…

Randi at I Have to Say will be hosting her Recipe Box Swap this week, and this month’s theme is…COOKIES AND BARS! Be still, my beating heart. I will be posting some sort of tasty treat for you (and her other readers), and if you want to play along, head over there to get some linkage for this cool graphic:

swap blogpost

Second, I will be hosting a contest later this week. A photo-captioning contest, to be exact. So get yourself hyped up and your creative juices flowing. A not-as-fantabulous-as-PW’s-but-still-cool prize will be awarded, too.

Bad Poetry Monday – 14

I think.  I think it’s 14.  If I’m wrong, just make it 14 1/2.  Anyway, inspired by today (do not try to find a meter in it):

Thunder

O Thunder!
I never thought I would be
so happy to hear you

Unplug my computer
Turn off the TV
Bask in your dark, booming revelry

God at play (as some say)
Bringing freshness
Green
Fragrant
Spring!

So come on, Thunder
Don’t delay

But make sure to include some
RAIN

Bad Poetry Monday – 13

You could pick almost any oldies song and find that the lyrics are even cornier when not set to catchy doo-wop music, but those with more dooby doos than real words fall into the “especially bad” category. I have no problem with the name Denise. In fact, it’s one of the names I would have chosen for myself as a child. But this song? Doesn’t do it justice.  Denise by Randy & The Rainbows (I could also poke fun at that…but I won’t):

Oh, Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you
Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you
Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you

Denise, Denise
Oh, with your eyes so blue
Denise, Denise
I’ve got a crush on you
Denise, Denise
I’m so in love with you

Oh, when we walk
It seems like paradise
And when we talk
It always feels so nice
Denise, Denise
I’m so in love with you

Your my dream and I’m in heaven
Every time I look at you
When you smile it’s like a dream
And I’m so lucky
‘Cause I found a girl like you

Oh, Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you
Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you
Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you

Denise, Denise
Oh, won’t you hold me tight
Denise, Denise
Oh, can we kiss goodnight
Denise, Denise
I’m so in love with you

Oh, Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you
Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you
Denise, dooby doo
I’m in love with you
Denise, dooby doo

Bad Poetry Monday – 12 (a.k.a. The Moment You’ve All Been Waiting For…)

I found it.  The creme de la creme of my poetry.  As bad as it is, it sparks such fond memories that I can’t help but LOVE it.  I will dissect it post-poem.  So here it is…

Pop Tarts: The Food of the New Generation*

Pop Tarts.

They live in my tummy.
Why?
Because I ate them.
They tasted good.
Yummy, yummy, yummy.
I have Pop Tarts in my tummy.
Strawberry is the flavor.
The flavor that tops them all!  Non-frosted please.

Made of cells.
Cells are good.
Yummy Pop Tart cells.

Eat them!
Love them!
Give some to me cuz…
I love them too!

———–

Tell me, where can you find better poetry than that?  So honest.  So raw.  So cutting edge.

In high school I ran with a very…creative crowd.  My friend Jana and I would spend almost every day at each other’s houses.  While some of our friends held down summer jobs, we made creativity our job.  We would bake cakes and color the batter four different colors, then swirl them together.   We built villages out of legos.  We golfed almost daily.  We made many, many collages.  We drew cartoons (man, if I could find those, that would be another awesome post).  We made apple pies in creative forms and ate it for breakfast.  We watched her sister practice riding her unicycle from our perch on the roof.  We went ice-blocking.  We played tennis*.  And we wrote bad poetry about rubber chickens and beatniks and food we liked (case in point) and obviously, about whatever we were learning in science (hence the mention of cells).  Jana probably grew up and continued being artsy and cool.  Me, I’m average.  But I revel in memories of when I was artsy and cool…

*While the content of this poem reflected my opinion at the time written, keep in mind that this was before I knew a single thing about nutrition.  All I knew was activity burns calories.  And I was active.  The end.

**The fact that we played golf and tennis makes us sound like we were preppies at a country club, which is not true.  We played golf for free (well, on our parents’ membership, which cost only like $250 for the whole family for the entire season), and we played tennis at the public courts near my house where you had to insert quarters to buy time on the lights at night.

p.s. I now prefer my Strawberry Pop Tarts frosted on the rare occasion that I eat them.

Bad Poetry Monday – 11

Oof–barely still Monday!

This winner makes my “not quite so strange as I was in high school” self want to barf.  I found it while looking for the glorious beauty that is my Ode to Pop Tarts.  Couldn’t find that lovely poem, so here is one to placate you, the masses (read: two people) who actually visit my blog on Bad Poetry Mondays.

Not only did I write bad poetry, but I apparently suffered from some punctuation-related illness.

The Music

The music resonates in my ear —
This music of the night —
The song calls me to dance —

My partner is the moon.
I lead.
Every swirl and step —
Is music in itself.
Gracefully we glide —
Forever —
Because the Music never stops