I has them.

It would’ve gone alright with the rest as a middle name for real: Relax Qualm McGillicuddy, though it works better as a statement — a comma after Relax would’ve been perfect.

I had qualms about everything. If I didn’t, I imported them. I was my mother’s daughter, which is to say not half Irish just yet, which is to say French Canadian. My neighborhoods in a historic seaport were incredibly diverse, so I was surrounded by Italian qualms, many French Canadian ones, and the rarer Irish qualm (who had qualms about having qualms but had them anyway, only slightly moreso than did the Greeks).

The problem was, we were mostly of the Catholic working class persuasion, and that was rife with qualms. The only Jewish girl I knew didn’t seem to suffer them. She was joyful, animated, sure of herself. I desperately wanted to be Jewish for a while, back when I didn’t realize one could be Jewish and yet not religiously so.

I continue qualmward. Not because it’s mandatory for the conscience — that’s only how it got a foothold. I need qualms, the awkward 50-lb butterflies of doubt, to warn me off of what I think I want to go for — or at least make me think longer, consider more.

Or, angelqualms.


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Ncht. Kids. Ncht. Mom. *

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In honor of Mothers Day (in America), I stole those two above.  (Sorry, Ma. *sigh.. guess you’ll have to send me to my cool, shady, quiet, comfy room allll alone..  Ya gotta do whatcha gotta do… I’ll get over it somehow.  I deserve it, I know…but gosh, you’re not gonna make me stay in there for hours and hours, are ya?)

Oh, fine.  I didn’t steal them.  Credit to one of my favorite sites, “Just Laugh.”  It’s both innocuous and amusing enough for someone like me (and maybe you).  And not just because I’ve already seen all the mullet-hairdos with enormous eyeglasses photos on Awkward Family Photos. “Just Laugh” is very clever.

Yes, I’m back on Facebook, but only as emergency contact, because daughter occasionally doesn’t get a new phone card until a pay-Friday, which might be days away. She’s the one with all the kids, so I have to be instantly reachable — as does she.

Yes, this is my way of avoiding writing of mothers.  It hurts. Yes, even almost 23 years into the fact, but anyway, for all moms out there, and grandmoms and great-grandmoms, aunts and all who are motherly, I’m wishing you a sweet, calm Sunday.

For anyone who still has a mom, go see her. Sunday. Any Sunday. Every Sunday!  Or, if you live with her, take her somewhere fun.  Like, Chuck E. Cheese. ‘Cause it’s gonna rain, you KNOW it’s gonna rain, lol.  Throw her in the ball pit — she’ll love it, just before you all get kicked out of the place.  Again.

*(Oh, gosh.. had to update this. My former-LimpBizkit/Staind/Megadeth-loving daughter just said to her almost 13-yr-old son, “Turn that music down — I can’t stand it!”)

:-o!!

🙂 Happy Weekend, WP fam.  ❤

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A Sharing: He hides (recycled) giants…

(Relax note:  I particularly love “Sleeping Louis,” who was built on a former homeless persons’ sleeping site. Check out all Thomas Dambo’s work from here.  [And all the more now, I cannot help but think that even the most radical terrorist (or activist) would transformatively benefit from a walk in some woods.])


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A Sharing: Cats..

(For those who suspect cats are mass murderers, Maru will change your mind. Maru videos are a form of meditation for me, lol. —Relax)


 

(For those who suspect cats are mass murderers, Simon’s cat will confirm that for you. All girl cats are like this, I think. —Relax)


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View from the Barbiemobile

“Is that a good book?” Sometimes his answer is, “No, not really — (s)he’s a laborious writer/it jumps all over the place/it goes back and forth through generations without warning/(s)he’s too deep.”

I almost always want to ask, since there are approximately a gazillion other books to choose from, why he would continue on with this one. It seems such a waste of brainpower. However, this is a man who has been known to request bread heels or wilted lettuce.  He’s right when he says it’s likely no one else will eat them, “We don’t want to waste anything.” In my deeply American opinion, this is why God placed squirrels, crows, ‘possums and earthworms so near to man’s living; these, too, must eat in order to perform their Planned works– and just who would so fatly feed them if not for the O’Relaxes?

Ever seen a squirrel holding and enjoying an aged egg roll?  It’s a sight for sore eyes.  Nothing could be wasted here, but we differ on that theory, and I literally have to remove the barely identifiables from Christmas in the ‘fridge, lest he eat them and mutate into something even more baffling than a homeowner carpenter/crow-possum. (Ladies with electrician husbands will know I feel for their non/wiring, and plumbers’ wives, for their duct tape repairs — all of whom will know how much I anticipated closets. And still do. With God, all things are possible, after all.  I haven’t actually prayed for closets, nor even for doors on the ornate sets of shelves/poles that have appeared, but I’m close.)

I wish I had something in which to immerse myself, other than hyperbole and sarcasm. Last winter, I went from room to room looking for some craft-y thing to take form, or to at least give me ideas that would hold my interest via my hands.  No, it seems I have only words, now.  (Everything else seems like labor.) It’s possible I could quilt some words into a warm and attractive covering for someone, though I must wonder if it would extend further than the tortured toes of Barbie’s high-heel-ruined arches.

Well, perhaps I’d better aim for at least that much — it’s not likely Ken is ever gonna provide for her!


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