There's blue nail polish on the bathroom counter top. I think I could maybe get it off if I bought some nail polish remover, but I feel like it needs to stay there for a while.
When Toby was three (fucking three--it's a baby), he got blue nail polish all over the carpet in the basement bedroom of the house we were renting. I, of course, rushed in there, yelled at him, and violently threw him to the side when I realized what he was doing.
I could say a lot of things... as soon as I get the house under control, as soon as I remember to cook on a consistent basis, as soon as I pull back on working from home, as soon as they get a little older, but none of these things are the real issue. They can be triggers to rage, but they aren't the things that need to be changed.
When I started getting along with my husband, it wasn't because we suddenly managed to manage our money better or because he learned to close the bread bag or because I started paying better attention to his laundry or any of the other ridiculously trivial things that used to trigger fights (not to say that we don't fight anymore, but we do so with increasingly less frequency and intensity). We started to get along because to put it bluntly, I decided to stop being such a fucking bitch, and as soon as I did that, things got better.
This time, when my now eight year old got nail polish all over the bathroom, I didn't get mad. He was being ever so careful with toilet paper, and I told him not to worry that it was an accident and accidents happen. But I still get mad. I still stomp and yell and throw things I just didn't this time over the nail polish.
Eventually, we left the house where my little son defiled the carpet. It wasn't the only damage that was done so they kept our deposit and sent us a bill. Now, there may or may not be a roll of old carpet with blue nail polish on it in a landfill somewhere, and there may or may not be stained carpet in the basement of a house I will never walk into again. It doesn't matter.
The only thing I have left from that day is my son--the eight year old version of the three year old I can see in my mind's eye crouching on the floor, painting the carpet. And that's my responsibility, not the fucking carpet, not any of the other trivial things that have flown me into a rage. My responsibility is my son.
And this is not the sentiment I want to leave him with...
"All I ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you." --Leonard Cohen
So, for now, I'll leave the blue nail in the bathroom while I think about it.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Friday, May 24, 2013
Writing
I think while I was writing a book, I felt a clearer sense of purpose, but I knew while writing it and engaging in the drama that surrounded its conception that I was ignoring my kids, and I promised myself that when I was done, I would spend a year writing essays about them, about us.
Studies say you're less likely to follow through with plans if you announce them in advance, and people say the best laid plans of mice and men are often set asunder so why fucking bother (making plans or announcements).
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Robert Burns
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
What Are Your Scallops?
I picked up my husband from work the other night, and he was a little blue that everybody seemed to be making more off his talents than him. So, he cycled through some petty complaints about this and that, and finally, he said, "It doesn't matter. At the end of the day, they go home with all their money, but I get to go home knowing that I've cooked the scallops... I do whatever I want all day, and I love it ."
So, clearly, this brings me back to me.... what are my freaking scallops?
About a week before this conversation, we were having another argument. (God bless, my friend Nicole, by the way, who convinced me to get married in the first place and who has listened to recaps of about a million and ten arguments since then.) During the argument, I thought my husband was being a real ass by turning everything on me when the argument wasn't even about me. After the post-game with Nicole and a bit of reflection on my own, however, I realized that he was just utterly frustrated by my unhappiness which I, of course, blame on everybody else (I'm miserable because you're disgusting slobs who don't help or I'm miserable because you all eat all the time and I hate cooking or I'm miserable because of whatever you're doing wrong.)
So, it was those two conversations together that brought me back to... what are my freaking scallops?
First of all.... let's be honest about the fact that scallops for women are different than scallops for men (not in every case but statistically in most cases and on a biological level, it's a different bowl of seafood). My husband can spend all day doing whatever he wants in spite of having children because he has someone on tap to watch them. Whether he needs to go to work at a nine in the morning and work til well past midnight because of a wine dinner or whether he needs to grab a drink to unwind after work, he doesn't need to worry about where his kids are or how much extra he needs to pay the babysitter or even arranging a babysitter or anything else because I'm here taking care of that shit.
I had a little "first of all" pity party for myself for a couple days, and then, I thought about writing. I think writing is my scallops... If I were making a bowl of scallops, they would come in the form of a book deal and a sun flooded room above a garage and some part-time child care and a garden outside that I wasn't responsible for weeding and maybe some fruit trees while we're at it. But that's not the case.
So, I "first of all" and "but-ted" for a few more days, and then, I remembered. I remembered that I had a what-are-my-scallops party two years ago (see all drunkenly written posts from April of 2011 and read between the lines), and at the end of that party, I decided to write a book which I did (more on that later probably). And by the time I got to the end of the book, I decided yes, I would like to write another book, but more importantly, I decided that I wanted this life, the one that I have, the one where I cook for people who are hungry and clean for people who are dirty and read to people who are bored and work (writing actually but about boring things like car insurance) to help support all of that.
And when my husband says he gets to do whatever he wants in a day, he is slightly overstating the fact. He has to peel potatoes when his wrists are aching, and he has to sweat his balls off in a cramped space in the summer, and he has to deal with countless other petty things that I'm sure are not awesome, but they're part of the package.
And so finally... It took a week of asking myself what are my freaking scallops before I realized that I have the freaking scallops, I just need to cook them and enjoy cooking them and try not to blame everybody else when and if I fuck them up.
*** I just want to note that thinking about scallops is a luxury. As life happens, choices often get whittled away, and for some people, the choices available to them are painfully scarce. They're lucky if they can open a can of spam much less think about cooking scallops, and I'm grateful for the amount of time that I can devote to thinking about these issues because I know that not everybody gets to.
So, clearly, this brings me back to me.... what are my freaking scallops?
About a week before this conversation, we were having another argument. (God bless, my friend Nicole, by the way, who convinced me to get married in the first place and who has listened to recaps of about a million and ten arguments since then.) During the argument, I thought my husband was being a real ass by turning everything on me when the argument wasn't even about me. After the post-game with Nicole and a bit of reflection on my own, however, I realized that he was just utterly frustrated by my unhappiness which I, of course, blame on everybody else (I'm miserable because you're disgusting slobs who don't help or I'm miserable because you all eat all the time and I hate cooking or I'm miserable because of whatever you're doing wrong.)
So, it was those two conversations together that brought me back to... what are my freaking scallops?
First of all.... let's be honest about the fact that scallops for women are different than scallops for men (not in every case but statistically in most cases and on a biological level, it's a different bowl of seafood). My husband can spend all day doing whatever he wants in spite of having children because he has someone on tap to watch them. Whether he needs to go to work at a nine in the morning and work til well past midnight because of a wine dinner or whether he needs to grab a drink to unwind after work, he doesn't need to worry about where his kids are or how much extra he needs to pay the babysitter or even arranging a babysitter or anything else because I'm here taking care of that shit.
I had a little "first of all" pity party for myself for a couple days, and then, I thought about writing. I think writing is my scallops... If I were making a bowl of scallops, they would come in the form of a book deal and a sun flooded room above a garage and some part-time child care and a garden outside that I wasn't responsible for weeding and maybe some fruit trees while we're at it. But that's not the case.
So, I "first of all" and "but-ted" for a few more days, and then, I remembered. I remembered that I had a what-are-my-scallops party two years ago (see all drunkenly written posts from April of 2011 and read between the lines), and at the end of that party, I decided to write a book which I did (more on that later probably). And by the time I got to the end of the book, I decided yes, I would like to write another book, but more importantly, I decided that I wanted this life, the one that I have, the one where I cook for people who are hungry and clean for people who are dirty and read to people who are bored and work (writing actually but about boring things like car insurance) to help support all of that.
And when my husband says he gets to do whatever he wants in a day, he is slightly overstating the fact. He has to peel potatoes when his wrists are aching, and he has to sweat his balls off in a cramped space in the summer, and he has to deal with countless other petty things that I'm sure are not awesome, but they're part of the package.
And so finally... It took a week of asking myself what are my freaking scallops before I realized that I have the freaking scallops, I just need to cook them and enjoy cooking them and try not to blame everybody else when and if I fuck them up.
*** I just want to note that thinking about scallops is a luxury. As life happens, choices often get whittled away, and for some people, the choices available to them are painfully scarce. They're lucky if they can open a can of spam much less think about cooking scallops, and I'm grateful for the amount of time that I can devote to thinking about these issues because I know that not everybody gets to.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Mother's Day
For some reason, Mother's Day made me a little depressed this year. Really, I've been on and off depressed since January so it being Mother's Day may have not really been the cause, but as it spun in my mind, there were two reasons:
A. My mother. I think I am purposefully distancing myself from that woman, and although it doesn't make me sad like I miss her, it makes me a little sad. Also, because I only remembered Mother's Day the day before it happened, I forgot to send her a card, and I felt guilty all day, but I decided the guilt was easier to deal with than actually calling her. I don't think I've ever really sent cards in the past, but now that I'm distancing myself, it seems important to keep up with gestures like cards so nobody notices that I'm not making phone calls or coming to holidays. (Not that anybody calls me, and if they did, I'd let it go to voice mail because I need to build up to that kind of thing.)
B. My cynicism. I can't deal with greeting card holidays, and although I know that Mother's Day has ancient roots, I have it grouped in the greeting card section of my mind. I do well with the Christian holidays because they more or less align with the seasons in ways that feel right to me. That said, Easter was way too early this year, and I could have used Mother's day as my spring time bacchanal, but the idea didn't occur to me until after I had gotten all depressed about it. Sometimes, I wish I wasn't so cynical... that I could just take a day and not over think it.
The kids found out it was Mother's Day, and they all picked flowers, and that was really the highlight.
And the next night, we had steak and crab and friends over for dinner, and it's nice to know that people will come eat our food and mull over life even though the house was disgustingly dirty and I hadn't showered in ages.
A. My mother. I think I am purposefully distancing myself from that woman, and although it doesn't make me sad like I miss her, it makes me a little sad. Also, because I only remembered Mother's Day the day before it happened, I forgot to send her a card, and I felt guilty all day, but I decided the guilt was easier to deal with than actually calling her. I don't think I've ever really sent cards in the past, but now that I'm distancing myself, it seems important to keep up with gestures like cards so nobody notices that I'm not making phone calls or coming to holidays. (Not that anybody calls me, and if they did, I'd let it go to voice mail because I need to build up to that kind of thing.)
B. My cynicism. I can't deal with greeting card holidays, and although I know that Mother's Day has ancient roots, I have it grouped in the greeting card section of my mind. I do well with the Christian holidays because they more or less align with the seasons in ways that feel right to me. That said, Easter was way too early this year, and I could have used Mother's day as my spring time bacchanal, but the idea didn't occur to me until after I had gotten all depressed about it. Sometimes, I wish I wasn't so cynical... that I could just take a day and not over think it.
The kids found out it was Mother's Day, and they all picked flowers, and that was really the highlight.
And the next night, we had steak and crab and friends over for dinner, and it's nice to know that people will come eat our food and mull over life even though the house was disgustingly dirty and I hadn't showered in ages.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
No Rules
My son and I recently watched an episode of Wife Swap that featured a radical unschooling mom (Dayna Martin) and a military-discipline style mom. If there was a winner on this episode, it was clearly the unschooling mom, but not necessarily because she unschools but because she believes in loving and listening to kids rather than ruling them for their own good. I think that level of responsiveness is far more important than any ideology a person may be using.
The one idea that stuck with me (actually there were several) from this episode seems to be pretty common in the unschooling world (particularly in the radical unschooling world), and that was her one rule of "no rules."
Conceptually, I get it. Personally, in this house, the more rules we have shed, the better we have all felt and acted. Clearly, there are some social and cultural rules and laws that have to be followed at certain points, and these rules may differ from situation to situation i.e. Martin's kids were allowed to jump on the trampoline at 1 in the morning which my kids really want to do. However, that family seemed to live in the country, and we live in town where it's not appropriate to jump on the trampoline (because it's loud) after ten. (This article from the Guardian briefly touches on that idea as it pertains to cultures where the kids are more or less not ruled by their parents.)
There seems to be a pervasive idea in the unschooling/AP world that if you respect your kids enough or model good enough behavior or let them explore the natural consequences enough that they will magically not be dicks, but... These people don't have my kids, and my kids are freaking lunatics.
I've gotten a lot of parenting criticism for not saying no enough, but I feel like I'm saying no all the damn time.
No, don't shred carrots so that you can shove messy handfuls of them into your mouth while jumping up and down and playing video games with the neighbors and spraying carrots all over the floor.
No, don't jump on the mini indoor trampoline while eating a muffin, the crumbs of which you will grind into our already disgusting carpet when you start running around in circles which you will undoubtedly start doing at any moment.
No, don't drag the rotten old mattress, which is only in the garage waiting to go to the dumpster because you jumped on it so much that you broke it, through a mud puddle and into the yard, where it will kill the grass and the landlord will evict us because she's a grass lover, to make a landing pad so that you can jump off the shed.
No, don't swing on the clothesline and break the line (again) because the dryer has been broken for over two years, and the clothesline is the only option.
No, don't drag every blanket we own into the yard (again).
No, don't say nigger in the house or anywhere. (Note, this is not a word that I ever use, but their friend likes to walk in the door and shout, "What's up my niggers?" as a greeting so they've picked it up, and although I've gone over the cultural and historical background of this word and although it may eventually become more socially acceptable as slang continues to adapt, it's just not an appropriate word for little white boys to be saying).
No, don't use the entire bottle of cleaner that I just bought for my yearly shower cleaning to wash out a footprint of mud that you got in the bathtub.
I see the benefit of listening to my kids, to figuring out what they really need to do rather than what I think they need to do, and every move we've made further in that direction has been a positive one. I see how much they appreciate it when we respect them and their choices, but no rules....
Maybe it's just a case of letting them get older or helping them think of better options than dragging old mattresses into the yard (and if I had a couple acres and a dirt yard, they could put the frigging mattress right next to the broken down cars and the other yard rubbish and it would be swell).
At the moment, though, they say this, "All you see are messes, and we're just trying to have fun."
At the moment, though, when they approach me with their ideas, they preface them with hand gestures to calm me or admonitions of "Don't get mad, can we..." and then, maybe they continue with "dismantle the food processor to build a meat grinder."
I'm not sure how I can be any more permissive without losing my sanity, but maybe I had it above, maybe I just need to chill til they grow out of it or help them think of better things to do... but I'm not sure if there are better ideas than mattresses in the yard or dismantling working appliances to make new ones.
The one idea that stuck with me (actually there were several) from this episode seems to be pretty common in the unschooling world (particularly in the radical unschooling world), and that was her one rule of "no rules."
Conceptually, I get it. Personally, in this house, the more rules we have shed, the better we have all felt and acted. Clearly, there are some social and cultural rules and laws that have to be followed at certain points, and these rules may differ from situation to situation i.e. Martin's kids were allowed to jump on the trampoline at 1 in the morning which my kids really want to do. However, that family seemed to live in the country, and we live in town where it's not appropriate to jump on the trampoline (because it's loud) after ten. (This article from the Guardian briefly touches on that idea as it pertains to cultures where the kids are more or less not ruled by their parents.)
There seems to be a pervasive idea in the unschooling/AP world that if you respect your kids enough or model good enough behavior or let them explore the natural consequences enough that they will magically not be dicks, but... These people don't have my kids, and my kids are freaking lunatics.
I've gotten a lot of parenting criticism for not saying no enough, but I feel like I'm saying no all the damn time.
No, don't shred carrots so that you can shove messy handfuls of them into your mouth while jumping up and down and playing video games with the neighbors and spraying carrots all over the floor.
No, don't jump on the mini indoor trampoline while eating a muffin, the crumbs of which you will grind into our already disgusting carpet when you start running around in circles which you will undoubtedly start doing at any moment.
No, don't drag the rotten old mattress, which is only in the garage waiting to go to the dumpster because you jumped on it so much that you broke it, through a mud puddle and into the yard, where it will kill the grass and the landlord will evict us because she's a grass lover, to make a landing pad so that you can jump off the shed.
No, don't swing on the clothesline and break the line (again) because the dryer has been broken for over two years, and the clothesline is the only option.
No, don't drag every blanket we own into the yard (again).
No, don't say nigger in the house or anywhere. (Note, this is not a word that I ever use, but their friend likes to walk in the door and shout, "What's up my niggers?" as a greeting so they've picked it up, and although I've gone over the cultural and historical background of this word and although it may eventually become more socially acceptable as slang continues to adapt, it's just not an appropriate word for little white boys to be saying).
No, don't use the entire bottle of cleaner that I just bought for my yearly shower cleaning to wash out a footprint of mud that you got in the bathtub.
I see the benefit of listening to my kids, to figuring out what they really need to do rather than what I think they need to do, and every move we've made further in that direction has been a positive one. I see how much they appreciate it when we respect them and their choices, but no rules....
Maybe it's just a case of letting them get older or helping them think of better options than dragging old mattresses into the yard (and if I had a couple acres and a dirt yard, they could put the frigging mattress right next to the broken down cars and the other yard rubbish and it would be swell).
At the moment, though, they say this, "All you see are messes, and we're just trying to have fun."
At the moment, though, when they approach me with their ideas, they preface them with hand gestures to calm me or admonitions of "Don't get mad, can we..." and then, maybe they continue with "dismantle the food processor to build a meat grinder."
I'm not sure how I can be any more permissive without losing my sanity, but maybe I had it above, maybe I just need to chill til they grow out of it or help them think of better things to do... but I'm not sure if there are better ideas than mattresses in the yard or dismantling working appliances to make new ones.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
The Legend Boy
Preface
My nine year old is going to write, direct, and star in his own movies so that he can be richer than us and have his own room. He's also worked out an allowance that he'll send us (his parents) on a monthly basis so that we have some spending money while we live with one of his younger brothers.
He has a few plots already worked out, and the following is a transcription of one that he has been telling me for a few months but just dictated to me the other day. It's long, and this probably isn't the best place for it, but I want to put it somewhere.... we've been having long conversations about the publication process and the various self-publication options so he probably wouldn't be happy to know that I self-published it on my blog before he had the chance to make it big with this one... so don't tell him.
How I helped...
My role was to type as he spoke. When he got ahead of me, I would have him wait until I caught up, and then, I would repeat the last few words so that he could continue. A few times when his words made no sense, I repeated them and waited while he verified the syntax. We reread it once to edit. Initially, he had started the story in third person and switched to first person after the second sentence so that was perhaps the biggest edit. There were one or two instances were I repeated a sentence with a grammatical mistake in it so that he could notice it and fix it or not notice it and not fix it as the case was twice. There were a few instances where he requested that I remove something and replace it with something else, but I was very pedantic in terms of repeating what he had written, only deleting what he specifically said to delete, and only typing what he actually dictated.
The first time I heard this story, I thought he had made it up on the spot, but he said it was one of several that he'd been working on during his quiet time for months. It retains the same basic plot every time he tells it with small additions like a hoverboard after our Back to the Future marathon weekend. The fact that he could repeat certain sentences verbatim indicates to me that he's also worked on the syntax in certain sections in ways that are really valuable to pre-writing. Obviously, I also punctuated this because one doesn't punctuate aloud while dictating. So on to his story...
My nine year old is going to write, direct, and star in his own movies so that he can be richer than us and have his own room. He's also worked out an allowance that he'll send us (his parents) on a monthly basis so that we have some spending money while we live with one of his younger brothers.
He has a few plots already worked out, and the following is a transcription of one that he has been telling me for a few months but just dictated to me the other day. It's long, and this probably isn't the best place for it, but I want to put it somewhere.... we've been having long conversations about the publication process and the various self-publication options so he probably wouldn't be happy to know that I self-published it on my blog before he had the chance to make it big with this one... so don't tell him.
How I helped...
My role was to type as he spoke. When he got ahead of me, I would have him wait until I caught up, and then, I would repeat the last few words so that he could continue. A few times when his words made no sense, I repeated them and waited while he verified the syntax. We reread it once to edit. Initially, he had started the story in third person and switched to first person after the second sentence so that was perhaps the biggest edit. There were one or two instances were I repeated a sentence with a grammatical mistake in it so that he could notice it and fix it or not notice it and not fix it as the case was twice. There were a few instances where he requested that I remove something and replace it with something else, but I was very pedantic in terms of repeating what he had written, only deleting what he specifically said to delete, and only typing what he actually dictated.
The first time I heard this story, I thought he had made it up on the spot, but he said it was one of several that he'd been working on during his quiet time for months. It retains the same basic plot every time he tells it with small additions like a hoverboard after our Back to the Future marathon weekend. The fact that he could repeat certain sentences verbatim indicates to me that he's also worked on the syntax in certain sections in ways that are really valuable to pre-writing. Obviously, I also punctuated this because one doesn't punctuate aloud while dictating. So on to his story...
The Legend Boy
by Max Parker
Chapter One
It was a normal day. I was playing Minecraft on my laptop. Then, Toby came along and hit the power switch which really sucks because I was about to build Big Ben. Then, my dad, Hank said, "Hup. Hup. It's time to go to hockey practice."
So I put on my hockey uniform and one boring hour later came back. Then, I wanted to go back to play on my laptop so I could build Big Ben again, but Dad said I should paint something. I kind of agreed with him. I mean it's been awhile since I painted something, but I've never built Big Ben.
So, I took three pieces of paper and taped them together. Then, I painted them. I painted them upwards like how you build a snowman -- one, two, three. It was beautiful. It kind of looked like the Mona Lisa, but happier. But there was one thing that was missing. It was a necklace. I decided that I didn't want to paint one on. I wanted to glue a real necklace on.
I thought it was a great idea. I could probably sell the painting. With the necklace plus the beauty and the paint value and the blah blah stuff like that, I thought I could sell it for about $40,000 at least.
Holden, the town bully, decided to take the painting and chuck it into the town cave. So I went after it. I thought I was halfway through the cave when I realized I had no food or water so I decided to go out of the cave to go get food and water. So I got all my favorite snacks including Gummi worms. Then, I went back to the cave. There were stalactites and stalagmites all over the cave.
I heard a noise, and I got scared. But I just realized, it was only a bat. I gave the bat some Gummi worms, and then, it seemed to follow me. I was about to trip on a stalagmite when the bat stopped me so I wouldn't slip on it. I rewarded him with a Gummi worm. I decided to give the bat a name. I named him Petey.
Chapter Two
I could see the light at the end of the cave. I knew it was the end of the cave. Then, I realized I went through the whole cave without finding my painting so I needed to start looking, and I needed to start looking good.
I told Petey to help me look for my painting, and believe it or not, he actually started looking. I couldn't tell if he was looking for food or looking for my painting, but either way, I didn't care. Three hours passed, and I still hadn't found my painting. It was taco night so I wanted to get home. I decided to go out through the light, but it wasn't the end of the cave. Believe it or not, it was a necklace. It was shining bright.
I touched it, and it darkened. I brought a flashlight with me in case I couldn't see through the whole cave so I looked around, and I saw it. It was a skeleton man with the necklace around it. I grabbed the necklace.
Then, I saw that he was holding a sword so I grabbed it. Then, I saw a mouse. I decided that since Petey was such a good friend that I should add him to my team of animals too. So I gave him a few Gummi worms, and then, I told him that he was now a part of my animal team and that he needed to protect me just like Petey did. I told him the story of how Petey protected me from tripping.
Then, the necklace whispered in my ear.
It said, "They can understand you." It was creepy and loud how Voldemort sounds in the movie Harry Potter.
Then, Petey spoke to me, "G'Day, Mate. Top of the morning to you."
Then, I said, "Petey, you can talk!"
"Well, I can't speak human, but that magic necklace allows you to speak to animals. How did you guess, my real name is Petey? The mouse's name is Jane."
I thought it was a weird name for a mouse, but I decided to keep calling it Jane. You're probably wondering why I thought it was weird, but I thought he was a boy, and Jane was a girl name. Then, she spoke, and then, I could tell by her voice that she's a girl.
All she said was, "Can I have some more Gummi worms."
Then, I said, "No, you've already had a bunch."
Chapter Three
Jane and Petey touched the necklace. Petey started to glow like he was some kind of gem or something. Then, Jane turned golden. I asked them why they were turning that color when they touched the necklace. They told me that the necklace had super powers and when they touched it they became super animals. Then, I stepped on something sharp.
I turned around, and it was a bear claw. The bear tried to slash me, but Jane made a force field around me. I didn't ask questions, I just knew it was one of their super powers. Then, Jane levitated the bear up in the air and knocked him on the ground.
I talked to the bear since I could talk to animals. I told him that it was only an accident that I stepped on his paw and that I wasn't an intruder. Then, the bear said, "Go on." There was three ways we could go. The bear said to go in the middle. The bear told us that there was two kinds of paths in the cave. There were double paths, and when they came across a double path, they should always go on the right. If they came across a triple path, they should always go in the middle.
We went through many passages until I came to the light. I could tell it was the light at the end of the cave because it was just a different kind of light. Like when you look through a drain pipe, and you can see the other end, and your friend is there. It was that kind of light. I could see trees, but they looked different.
Then, the sword I was holding, the one that I grabbed from the skeleton man, exploded. It came back to my hand nicely again, and I turned it over. It said, "Time Sword. Do Not Touch." Then, I found a newspaper outside of the cave in a garbage can.
Chapter Four
It wasn't like old papers that we had in the modern day. It spoke to me so I didn't have to read it, and it levitated in the air so I didn't have to hold it.
Then, what it said to me is, "Happy New Years! Thirteen Thousand." Then, I realized, I wasn't in the year 2013, I was in the year 13,000. Then, Petey told me that the only way to go back to my own time if I took the time sword from this time and the time sword from my time and put the two swords together, and that should blast me back to my own time.
So I asked a random person if they knew where a sword is that said, "Time Sword" No one knew. I asked everyone in the town. Then, a lady with green hair came up to me and said, "I know where that sword is. Follow me." I followed her to the forest.
Then, I met the bear again that I met in the cave. He was still alive. He asked me what I was doing still alive. The bear told me no human could survive for more than a century. I told him the whole story, how the sword exploded and now, I'm in this time. I told him how I could only get back to my time by clicking the two legend swords together. The bear touched the magic necklace, and it turned golden. He started flying and told me to get on his back. I got on his back and flyed.
So he showed me the rock where the time sword was stuck in. Everyone tried to pull it out but me. It was my turn, and I pulled it out with ease. I clanked the two swords together, and it didn't work. Then, I realized the first time sword I had had a gem in it, and the second one didn't. Then, I realized my necklace had the exact same gem as the first sword. I took the gem out of the necklace and put it in the time sword. I clanked those two together, and I blasted back to my own time.
Chapter Five
I was going through the cave at probably a hundred miles per hour. I saw my painting and grabbed it. I realized my necklace I was wearing had a gold gem in it instead of a blue one I was wearing before. When I went out of a cave, I realized I had found the necklace for my painting. I put the necklace on, and it seemed a perfect fit.
I glued it on, and it was perfect. I still had the newspaper for that year, and it started to change. I realized the newspaper from the future, you don't have to grab a new one everyday, they just change and update you everyday. I read it, and it said a ten year old boy named Howie -- that's me -- pulled the sword out that no one else could pull. Explorers are looking for the boy.
I realized there was a speaker on the newspaper, and I yelled into it. I thought I was talking to the town, but I couldn't be certain. There was like a ninety percent chance I was. I said, "Don't look for me. You'll never find me." Then, I thought it wasn't safe to have a newspaper from the future so I ripped it in tons of pieces. I buried it under the ground where no one would find it.
Then, the necklace gave me one last gift. In the middle of the golden gem, I pulled out a tiny skateboard. I didn't know what to do with it. i tried to ride it, and because the necklace was magical, I thought there was someway i would be able to do it. Then, the skateboard turned big. I realized it wasn't a skateboard -- it was a hover board. I found out how it worked, and I sold it. I also sold the painting.
Thirty Years Later...
Chapter Six
I became rich and was very successful. I invented the hover board, and that made me rich. I married a beautiful woman, and I had three kids. They were all boys. Then, the town bully Holden tried to beat me up and told me if I didn't give him my money he would kill me. But I had learned a lot from that cave experience. I tricked him, and his face fell in mud. I told him to scram and he did. His gang of bullies ran with him. They were never seem again.
And my little brother Toibin became a successful shoe store owner.
The End.
I hope you have enjoyed the ride of The Legend Boy.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Note on procrastination....
You'll remember that not procrastinating was my goal for the year, and you may wonder how that's going. There are times when it goes splendidly--I walk past the washing machine, and I take out the clothes and hang them on the line. There are times when it goes miserably, I let the clothes in the washing machine weigh on my mind while I avoid them and they grow musty smelling.
It's not just housework that I procrastinate about...
Let's say, for instance, that I received a really awesome gift on January 25th that totally made my week and a collection of follow-up gifts, I would have totally procrastinated on writing a thank you note. Two months later, I would have not even penned a thank you note, but I would have probably spent a lot of time fantasizing about writing the thank you note.
I may have even had my kids draw pictures to send with the thank you notes, and then, I may have thrown their lame sketches of golden temples to represent gratitude-for-cash in the garbage in a Joan-Crawford-like outburst because I knew they could make better sketches.
I may have even spent a few days accidentally getting rich and buying the person who sent the gift a house, but if I've learned anything from obsessively watching Louis C.K. stand-up while avoiding housework it's that people like to fantasize about themselves doing nice things because it's easier than doing nice things, and at heart, they're just assholes.
I'm not sure what accounts for the difference between the assholes who just think of nice things and the nice people who actually do the nice things, but I'm glad there's nice people in the world--it makes it more bearable for the rest of us.
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