March 2, 2008
am i yours?
In looking for a witty quote on petience and parenting I came across this gem
everybody is somebody else’s weirdo
and thought, yes. We’ve all got a freak in our lives. Maybe several. I’ve got one for sure and others who are on that fine line between normal and its polar opposite. One misguided step and it’s headlong into crazytown.
But have you ever wondered - have you ever given thought to the idea that - maybe you are somebody else’s weirdo? That person they see coming and wish they had time to escape? Are there people who discuss your oddities over coffee by way of trying, in futility, to understand what makes you tick?
Moreover, do you know for whom it is that you qualify as weird? Are they right?
~ ~ ~
I was looking for quotes on patience because I am in need of more. Jacob is playing in the kitchen and while he is in no way being bad he is doing that thing boys do. He is playing with sound effects. Weaponry and spacecrafts currently attempt to drive me utterly insane. It will be seconds before I run from the house, ears bleeding, eyes streaming with tears. Can’t he go play dollies with his lovely quiet sister?
Who is not usually this quiet, don’t you worry. Her usual thing is reading books ALOUD LOUD LOUD or singing facsinating little songs while you’re trying to catch what Anderson Copper just said about the aliens attacking the place where you live.
Dan, did he just say aliens are attacking?
What?
Aliens?
What? I can’t hear you. Someone is singing a lovely little song…
ALIENS!
No thank you, I had some this morning.
WHAT?!?
~ ~ ~
If you cannot find me later it is maybe because I fell down and am now burried in the pile of laundry that has taken over my home. Which must be what Anderson Cooper was trying to say. Not aliens. Laundry. They don’t sound the same but somehow I misheard.
jenski said,
March 2, 2008 @ 7:27 pm
I hope I’m not someone else’s weirdo.
What fun would life be if we weren’t all a little strange? 
If only we could use our taser gun to shoot all the real weirdos.
lis said,
March 2, 2008 @ 10:29 pm
I am my own weirdo, I think. Because usually when I’ve been hanging out by myself for awhile I think, “I haven’t been making enough sound effects lately.” Oh, to be a kid! I think the beautiful thing about children is they can so completely drown out other people to sing songs and have sound effects. Only when you get older do these things continue to happen in your head and you either have to make it a profession or write it all down on paper.
Or maybe that’s just what it is to be in the arts. : )
Shalet said,
March 6, 2008 @ 12:29 pm
Have you seen my laundry pile? It’s similiar to Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout only with laundry. Well, no, the garbage and dishes are getting out of hand too. And now I’m going risk being a weirdo and quote Shel Silverstein for the second time in a week (can you tell I have kids?)
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She’d scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fried and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
“OK, I’ll take the garbage out!”
But then, of course, it was too late. . .
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate,
That I cannot now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!
Shel Silverstein, 1974