Life, Depression, Breakdowns, and Blogging

Life’s crazy sometimes.

Actually, life’s pretty boring if you’re an adult stuck in-between events. Like in the film Groundhog Day, each morning brings the same alarm which leads to the same breakfast cereal which leads to the same commute which leads to the same workday which leads to the same after-workday and housework. Exciting changes come in the form of bills (yay!) and the dishwasher breaking (double-yay!)

Lately, however, change has come creeping around like the green mist in Charleton Heston’s The Ten Commandments. At the advice of leaders, people have closed their doors, painted the lintels with sanitizer, and plan to stay inside till respiratory failure passes over.

I do not know how the Coronavirus news affected you, but ours was neither Groundhog Day nor The Ten Commandments. Ours was more of an accidentally-released film that started out with Alfred Hitchcock suspense, then lost all funding and turned into whatever the actors could come up with on the fly. We then got action, horror, comedy, bad stunts, feel-good moments, and even subtitles for when the grocery store workers watched their display of canned vegetables disappear for the umpteenth time.

Seemingly some of the few doing this, Kevin and I viewed the previews for this bad movie and planned accordingly. Still; when I read about this and this and this closing whilst listening to my baby’s coughing from a bad cold whilst tasting that chocolate I ate that yet again broke my diet -whilst probably experiencing postpartum hormones…

I broke.

Life was too much.

Blogging and all it entails was too much.

I wrote my last epistle, forever, and logged off. After a day of consideration, I logged on and added a note so as not to scare anyone.

A side effect of all this is a new desire for more privacy in my thoughts and feelings, so I will not go into many details besides these few. Even this much information is more than I wish to explain regarding my sudden change and my dramatic withdrawal.

My go-to in life is to numb, but I’ve taken it too far. I’m in The Matrix. Furthermore, I’m Cypher, intentionally trying to get plugged in despite tasting the freedom of The Real World. In the absence of godlike powers of Kung Fu and Jiu Jitsu, I concluded that life will always be the repetitive lines of off-green code that dictate a pre-programmed outcome that I will never change.

But; some tiny, immature, insecure person is still inside. It was she who woke, stamped her foot, and told Older Me to knock it off. Stop numbing. Stop plugging into the internet. Start living.

She knows I want to feel again; to live again.

And so, there are going to be some changes around here. I must, for my health and my life, prioritize what is real. I must connect with my family. Heck -I must connect with my bedroom wall, getting my brain to realize the wall is really there and really cold and really really real.

If you are experiencing similar numbness or disassociation, call your therapist or psychologist or whateverist. It’s not sustainable. It’s not real. It’s NOT what you want.

…and we woke to earthquakes this morning. If it gets any more funtastic around here, you may not hear from me till next year.
—————-

Since I checked out last week, here are the past two weeks. Bonus!
Wednesday, March 4: Complained about WordPress’ issues in “Dammit, WordPress!

Thursday, March 5: Throwback Thursday: “Motivation.”

Friday, March 6: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to EVERYONE!

Saturday, March 7: Announced the 62nd Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest.

Sunday, March 8: Suffered a mental breakdown, and said, “Goodbye.”

Monday, March 9: An inspirational quote by Corrie Ten Boom.

March 10 – 12: Nothing.

Friday, March 13: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to Ellen!

Saturday, March 14: Announced the 63rd Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is a limerick about hoarding during a catastrophe. PLEASE ENTER!

Also, I shared and featured my hope for how people are dealing with the COVID-19 scare.

Sunday, March 15: Nothing.

Monday, March 16: An inspirational quote by Terry Pratchett.

Tuesday, March 17: “Going Postal, I,” the first in a short series inspired by my postman.

Wednesday, March 18: Today.

I also posted on my motherhood site. I wrote “Super Parent or …Me?,” “Background Noises,” and “Oh, Baby.”

 

Photo Credit: GIPHY
Photo by Ekaterina Kartushina on Unsplash
Photo by Delaney Dawson on Unsplash
Photo by MI PHAM on Unsplash
Photo by Roland Hechanova on Unsplash

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Going Postal, I

Ron was just your average sort of guy: tallish, wideish, oldish, kindish. He drove his reliable old pickup with the reliable old hardtop around the neighborhood every day; often, he drove around several times a day.

Some of the residents talked to Ron. Most did not. Most didn’t notice him or his truck, despite it nearly always being full to bursting with their latest Amazon packages and Domino’s pizza coupons.

One day, Mrs. Hempsworth happened on Ron at the exact moment she went to retrieve her mail. Startled, she supposed she ought to make small talk. “Oh. Um. Hello.”

Ron didn’t look up from sorting his elasticized mail bundles into various slots, yet his voice sounded cheery. “Howdy.”

“Lovely day.”

“Oh, yes.”

Mrs. Hempsworth didn’t know what else to comment on, and cast about for a subject. Her eyes fell on his overstuffed vehicle. “Lots of packages.”

Ron stopped his shuffling and turned her direction. His pale blue eyes met her paint-lined browns. His gaze shifted to his truckload. Back to her. He blinked, surprised. “Yes.”

“Erm,” Mrs. Hempsworth fumbled. “Does it take you a while to deliver them all?”

Another blink. “Yes.”

“Oh.” She paused, out of her depth.

Ron helped. “‘Course, it’s been worse lately.”

Now she blinked. “Oh?”

“Yep.” Ron went back to sorting. “Everyone’s been orderin’ toilet paper off Amazon. It takes up too much space.”

She blushed, but the mail carrier’s white whispy hair was bent over a bin. He straightened, proferring a medium-sized package that weighed less than it appeared. Charmin was printed across the top.

“11259, right?”

She nodded and accepted her delivery without her realizing it. The man closed up the community mailbox, locked it with a key, picked up his empty bin, and headed back to his truck. “See ya,” he called, without looking back.

Mrs. Hempsworth watched the battered pickup drive away, the shifting packages within it sliding against the open windows of the hardtop. She clutched her toilet paper to her chest in a paranoid gesture, then relaxed. What did it matter that the mail carrier knew about her orders? It was his job, after all…

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/14 – 3/20/2020

Hi. This is the part where I say, “Hi,” and mention that this is our 63rd time around the terrible poetry track.

Here is where I give some directions. I still like our mishmash of sources contest, à la Ern Malley, for a way to create terribly as well. Really, the trick is to write like you’ve never been taught how to do poetry.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Topic: Stockpiling against a worldwide disaster, in limerick form.
  2. Length: A limerick. They’re five lines: AABBA, in anapestic meter.
  3. Rhyming: Yes. In AABBA anapestic meter format.
  4. Make it terrible! Got it? Make it terrible!! The world’s ending, after all!
  5. Rating: PG-13. This is the perfect time to panic …poetically.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 20) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please comment if your pingback link doesn’t show up within a day.

Now’s the perfect time for levity. Give it a whirl.

 

There once was a dino named Ptery
Who loved to eat tree stars and berries.
Then, out of the blue,
Ptery saw rocks that flew;
Now, Ptery is becoming an evolutionary.

The Coronavirus has spread to our area.

You may be feeling alarmed right now, or alone. We’re overreacting. We’re underreacting. It’s ‘this person’s’ fault’ or ‘this idea.’

None of that matters.

What matters is community. That’s a funny sentiment In the midst of encouraged isolation, but it’s true.

In the frenzied buying at Costco, four of my neighboring shoppers helped a baby-holding mother (me) with her cart.
A woman I don’t know posted in our community page that she’s willing to share food or resources with those who don’t have enough.
Another person started a thread to help those needing childcare because they still need to work.
And so many healthcare workers are heading out to their jobs, demonstrating the ultimate proof of their duty and devotion.

So, let’s help our fellow humans. Stay home if you can; definitely do so if you are sick. It’s not panic. It’s to spread out the impact on health facilities that only have so many respirators, beds, medicines, and -above all- people.

We have amazing informational resources these days. Use them for entertainment and learning. And, like me, use them to encourage and uplift. We’re all in this together, even apart in our own homes.

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

(Also posted on my personal Twofacebook page.)

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/13/2020

Kids say the darnedest things! They do, and so do our terrible poets. But, who said their poetry the darnedest?

My Hungry Bum

by Ellen Best

“Mammm”, my bottom keeps eating my pants,
Makes my legs do a dance.
I is pickin dem out, but dae makin me shout. And me tears is now wettin me leg.
*Sniffs*

Congratulations, Ellen! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

Reading through these was painfully akin to dinnertime chez moi, with fewer gaming and (surprisingly) bodily function references. I chose Ellen’s as first because it sounds a lot like what a child would say. Hers wasn’t the only one to do this, but I felt she did so quite well and managed enough whiff of verse to pass it off as a poem.

If you’ve the appetite, here are the other esteemed entrants:

From bottom-burps to bogeys

by Doug Jacquier

The dinner table farce started

when the oldest one farted,

and the middle-un began piddlin’

and then the underling was chundering.

To No. 1, Mum said ‘Stop that at once!, young Beau’

And he said ‘Sure, Ma, which way did it go?’

To No. 2, ‘The table’s not the place for peeing you know’

He replied ‘But you always tell us to go with the flow’.

No. 3 didn’t speak but passed his plate full of sick

To the dog under the table, from whence came the sound of ‘lick, lick’.

Dad smiled at his wife and ‘Don’t be such an old fogey’,

as he extracted and ate a big bogey.

Translations for non-Australians:

Chundering = vomiting

Bogey = booger

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

What? LOL, but I’m SITD
TMI OMG LYLAS
2moro, yes, 2moro
DBEYR.
IRL this is the TFH
J/K, MHOTY. SH
THX
TTYL
XOXO

—–

Airs And Graces.

by Obbverse

Aw, Mom, whats in this bowl?
I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole!
I don’t care what you say it contains
It looks like a pile of monkey brains!
I don’t believe that’s cauliflower cheese,
It looks even worser than carrots and peas,
And if it repeats the same as baked beans
Everyone here nose what that means.
I don’t wanna taste that gross goo,
It won’t taste a thing like tiramisu,
That snotty sauce, stinky chunky and thick,
It smells like farts and looks like a bowl of sick.
Mom, you can go ahead and reheat it,
But Mom, ain’t no way I’m gonna eat it,
Hot or cold, I’m only gonna leave it,
Mom, take it away before I heave it…

—–

Billy Dunnit

by Ted Strutz

“Billy dunnit.”
“Billy done what?”
“Billy dunnit.”
“Billy done what?”
“I dunno, forgot.”

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

‘Apart from his girl like eye lashes, thankfully no sign of dad in me’

‘Of all the festive colours, my muppet Dad bought a black Christmas Tree’

On a packed French TGV ‘why does the food smell of wee’

To someone from Ireland ‘apart from the rain, wind and cold is it like Hawaii’

Shouting ‘he’s got rabies’ to a poor bearded man on a train

To a mum in the playground ‘my dad fancies someone called Shania Twain’

‘Dad it’s rude to say fart you need to call it a bottom burp’

‘My Dad is a muppet, funny but such a twerp’

‘I can’t eat that carrot, it looks like a willy’

‘That looks like sick’ the day school served chilli

To his nursery teacher ‘my dad let’s me watch Frankenstein’

‘My teacher broke a cup and said a funny word, what does F*** mean’

**** important note ‘my dad let’s me watch Frankenstein’ actually means ‘my dad let’s me watch Scooby Doo which featured Frankenstein’.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

“It’s raining because I put on my boots.” She said.

When grandma turned 80, the 13 year old quipped, “Wow, she’s over the hill twice.”

—–

Cute? Things Kids Say

by The Bag Lady

Guest for dinner, sort of a slob

Kids fascinated by the blob

Of food overrelished, mouth open wide

Children couldn’t believe their eyes

The oldest pipes up to my dread

“You must be really hungry!” he said

The guest must not have heard or ignored

As more helpings in cheeks he stored.

***

True story, 🤪

—–

Thank you all for playing along. You always brighten my day and liven up my night. Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s prompt.

abdelkader-ft-GVVsC0JG6Ak-unsplash

Ellen: Here’s a badge you can post, if you want, to brag (again):

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

 

I’m not what people think. I’m not good or positive or responsible or noble. I’m not happy. I am not just a –anything –THAT is the only fire that kindles my passion.

Every day, I walk the world in intentional numbness. I fog emotion so as to dampen disappointment. I blur reality to handle it. I am not alive. I am not real. My optimism persists in the hope of a future change or an alternate reality.

In a someday.

Yet every day I grow older and fatter and less cognizant. The world of my imagination will never be.

The world is only taxes and dishes and children. The world is not mine to seize anymore; it’s those children’s. I’ve waited too long for me.

All that’s me is a memory, and a mom in a minivan.

Goodbye.

(I’m unplugging for a bit. I’ll post the poetry stuff, for sure; not certain what else, besides.)

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/7 – 3/13/2020

It’s terrible poetry time, here for its 62nd week!

If you’d like some guidance, read my basic outline here. I also think last week‘s method of construction was an excellent one for bad poetry creation. Or, you can always have a friendly kindergartener invent one.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is the cute (or ‘cute’) things that kids say. I’ll admit I’m more inspired by the parenthetical version after our dinner conversations lately. What is it with young children (perhaps just with boys) and potty humor? Do they really think meals are the best place to discuss vomit?
  2. We’re talking kids here, so the Length may be quite short (barely learning to talk) or quite long (talks your ear off about Minecraft).
    …Don’t make the judge suffer too much.
  3. Rhyming is optional, or entirely concerned with the word ‘fart.’
  4. It’s likely to not need much help in this department, but try to make it terrible. Make my young children giggle and start chanting lines from your poem whilst pointing at a brother in an insulting way.
  5. Kids sometimes say words they ought not to, but let’s keep the Rating an optimistic G.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (the 13th!) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please comment if your pingback doesn’t show up within a day.

Reach for the kid inside and have fun!

abdelkader-ft-GVVsC0JG6Ak-unsplash

Photo credit: abdelkader ft

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/6/2020

There’s no need to hold your breath any longer. At long last and after much deliberation, this week’s winner is:

Everyone.

I didn’t think I’d ever do this a second time, but these were FANTASTIC! I felt like a kid in a candy shop, surrounded by 12 of the best truffle varieties and asked to choose my favorite.

The twists of Shakespeare are exquisite! The quotes from books, made to imitate free-verse, are divine! Your terrible additions are delectable! Well done! Well done!

Mr. Ed and Terrible Poetry

by Richmond Road

“Beware the Ides of March, my dear
With feelings foul for you I fear
Beware the frauds, the fools, the fakes
When light through yonder window breaks
The Ides they come and come what may
Compare thee to a summer’s day
Though no such day will yet prevent
The winter of our discontent

There will be blood, you may be sure
Cry havoc! Let slip the dogs of war!
And there within the maelstrom see
Lord! What fools these mortals be
Lend me your ears. Allay you’re fears
The rider of the storm, he nears
My kingdom for a bloody horse
For a horse is a horse. Of course. Of course.”

—–

Ern Malley Incarnate (Vegan Options Available)

by Doug Jacquier

‘Now is the winter of our wet cement’
quoth Lucy in her sty with diamonds in her silk-purse ears.
Meanwhile, in a battlefield far, far, away, Dicky Three hunched his back,
despairing at the sward strewn with sordid, sworded bodies in his path
and cried ‘A hearse, a hearse, my kingdom for a hearse’.
Hearing nothing but the sounds of silence he bellowed
‘Unleash the dogs of war. Out, damn-ed Spot and yes, you, Fido,
and you, frumious Bandersnatch.
And let no-one ask who let the dogs out.’
But alas, alack, the dud plan of attack now needed a patsy stone.
He roared so all could hear,
“Cry ‘Harry (and Meghan), England and Boy George’ ”
and hied himself to the tintantabulation of the belfry of Notre Dame.
Thus it was left to the immoral bard, TS (George) Eliot to record,
on a cold, bright day whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
and the clock was striking thirteen,
“This is the way the world ends,
not with a banger but a Wimpy burger.”

—–

Lost in translation

by Bruce Goodman

(My wonderful poem was first translated by Google into Malay, then into Persian, and finally back into English.)

I hid lunch for a word –
Empty!
Where did you go? Oh!
Quo Vadis? I say horse height,
above a saddle basket, is a pile of flowers and frozen marshes.
Look at what is in your favour
(not the silent bridge behind);
there are things where you are, but things are set up
when the tiger burns brightly

not! What a beautiful bird!
You’re not the one to beat
more than the moon puzzle.
You are a greedy-pants of unbridled surreptitiousness
like a pig in search of its mother.
Bacon I told you! Bacon! Everyone bacon!
Do not hold back your sucking finger.

—–

Superb Tentricles of the Thoughtless Glory

by Tiredhamster

Quite in;
The clouds feel very out.
The dramaturgy master mediates his own
Universe into the comic, but askew.

Father’s earth illuminatingly
Not. It’s the voluntary course of pristine parallels
Of other directions. However, to stars, some part
Of the universe fled.

Cleave the empty
Atmosphere. Time important, sure, but chemically not
The very mass business of solely atomical gentlemen.
Forbidden, we exploded the galaxy, and slept without ears.

The actually answered room
Parallels chemically. Shakespeare’s not the me
In once we were. The life that literalizes to recognize
These facts sees the ambiguous floorboards.

—–

Yo Ho

by Peregrine Arc

Yo Ho, ’tis a South pirate’s love for be
My love, your series, Doug breaks over
And love knows no quarrel which it does not already conquer love roads and toads
Be still. Be free. And dear, don’t forget to pee-
-r over the clouds, covers, counters and flights
Of fancy love be, come come and hasten away
For the Opera vegan hits noon today
But what yonder light is that?
Why bloody hell, I forgot to pay the electric bill.

—–

Ern Malley by Ern Malley

by Deb Whittam

It was a night when the planets
Breathed from the wastes of the Tartarean heart.
Where the urchins pick their nose in the sun
Inattentive, suborned, betrayed, and shiftless.
The elephant motifs contorted on admonitory walls,
A Chinese landscape-roll.
A splash – white foam in the dark!
Where the striped fish moved at will.

—–

Perfidy & Discontinuity

by The Abject Muse

To be or not

to be? Or to remain

in this perfidious purgatory?

Clearly I am over-optioned.

A sad, angry sun spews its

hot yellow-ness

from a giggling azure sky —

beckoning me thither.

O! But then a voice

emanating from deep within

the Earth’s inner core through

the Gutenberg and Mohorovičić Discontinuities

all the way up through the planet’s toasty crust

(that makes one’s hair curl if consumed)

to my ears, which

I choose to ignore.

And we wonder why the penguins

are angry.

—–

They murder with a kiss.

by Lucy

Our lightless fire
This love is fair with keen appetite
Acidification
Our magical hyperbole
We avoid and clean in the scullery
Of faint stale smells of beer
Sanctified by an ancient skull
Seized, penetrated by anguish
Fever of the jaguar
In its charm,
Possessed much, blood-faced
Fairer than myself,
No wonder on the summer’s day
Plucked in each verse, red for shame,
Desire is cold, bridled by Webster’s obsession with death
With a text that clutches and folds,
Anguish, anguish in the flesh
For I am myself here in the flesh
(And not hemorrhoids).
To stroke on one’s cheek,
As I on the opposite shore will be
Devoured by heavenly distilling flowers,
Tangled in pale delight
Like crimson shame, Et tu Brute?
Our roads diverged for better ones
Than ourselves because it would never make a difference
Existing letting this dream begin,
I come, I see
And then be immodest,
Oh, they murder with a kiss
Shaking in whispers.

—–

Hoaxes And Angry Penguins

by Ellen Best
Beneath is The Sacrilege of mixing Rebecca Hilare Belloc With WH Auden.

The Funeral.

Stop the clocks cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog barking

With a juicy bone.

A trick that everyone abhors

In little girls is slamming doors.

Silence the piano

With a muffled drum.

Slap that girl on the bum.

Bring out the coffin

Let the mourners come.

She would deliberately go

Slam the door like billy-ho.

To make her uncle Jacob start

She wasn’t really bad at heart.

He was my north my South

East and West.

My working week

My Sunday rest.

The funeral sermon

(Which was long

And followed by

a sacred song)

I thought love

Would last

Forever

I was

Wrong.

—–

Mish-Mash*

by Ruth Scribbles

Her greasy small hand

Missing these four years

Unharnessed Fannie

Proprietor of the playhouse

It’s pointless

Ivan the terrible

Joined longhorn herds

Sang out to his team

One brief nod

Seemed thin and sour

Useless thoughts

It didn’t matter

Get on the horse

And go

~RuthScribbles

*Most phrases taken randomly from the book I’m reading for book club this month “News of the World,” by Paulette Jiles

—–

Untitled piece

by D. Wallace Peach

Protruding stomachs
In a Danish forest
Hairy as this covering
A sworn enemy of the giant race
Jack blew a mighty horn
The giant awoke
Understandably irritated
And killed him on the spot
A very hazardous task
Not equally spread numerically
Obviously
Such strenuous activities
Led to fatigue and rest periods
And practical jokes of ill-repute

—–

EVEN STEPHEN WAS A NUT-CRUNCHING EGGHEAD

by Matt Snyder

Her feelings at the moment are quite complex

Not Once did Eddie ever interfere

Fred made a good Psychopath

Maude was swept out to sea

But Stephen was always even

A decapitation ensues

Don’t just sit there like dopes !

Evil must suffer defeat

Hold up. A bubble machine ?

Questioned Stephen who was always even

He deduced and stated “Me no wear pants. It feels guuuuuuuud.”

Law is a bottomless pit, it is a cormorant, a harpy that devours everything!

—–

And, as a bonus by Ellen Best:

My Poetic explanation of The Great Austrailian Literrary Hoax.

A Sister wrote of her brothers passing

She sent his poetry for an editor to peruse

Not knowing the lot was a terrible ruse.

The Penguins were angry, who was the culprit

The Catholic church roared from the pulpit.

It bought down the wrath of the literary giant

When the hoax was revealed they became silent.

They had penned a collection of modernist rhyme

They made up a sister and gave him not much time.

Duplicitously they staged Ern’s demise, Graves disease

Both James McAuley and and Harold Stewart did freeze,

When eventually Ern Malley became more famous than they

His literary prowess like the phoenix raises its head still today.

—–

Thank you all for the wonderful, terrible poetry. These are incredibly clever and hilarious. Come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt, around 10 a.m. MST.

Ern_Malley

Everyone: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.