Monthly Archives: November 2013

Holiday Cleaning

We cleaned the house for 6 hours today. Admittedly, a lot of that time was spent walking back and forth trying to figure out what to do with stuff, but overall it was full of cleaning. Here’s my poem about it.

I don’t like cleaning.

I don’t like cleaning.

I don’t like cleaning.

I don’t like cleaning.

Mom cut her arm on a broken glass dove.

I don’t like cleaning.

I don’t like cleaning.

I don’t like cleaning.

I just inhaled a bunch of dust.

I don’t like cleaning.

I don’t like cleaning.

My brother is being an annoying nitwit.

I don’t like cleaning.

My Dad hurt his back so all he can do is sit.

I

am

done

with

cleaning.

 

– Happy Early Thanksgiving.

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Life is like a Mosh Pit

I was talking to my friend, complaining about my general inability to get to anyplace or go anywhere or my lack of friends, and he was busily trying to convince me to just ride my bike downtown and sit in a coffee shop or play my ukulele and just talk to strangers. He explained his life and an analogy for how life is like a mosh pit. Sometimes you got to risk hopping in because it’s just so much fun, and sometimes you got to take a break from dancing, and then get back in the pit. Nobody is trying to hurt you, they’re just dancing too, but you got to try the pit! You have to take risks, and nobody is going to kill you or run you over on your bicycle and it will be so much fun.

I thought about it. I wondered if I might just stand outside the Mosh pit and watch the people dance and listen to the music, and he said that people do that, but basically I have to jump in the Mosh pit because otherwise I’m going to be a hermit and die friendless and alone (friendless hermit dying part were my words, not his).

So I decided to jump in this metaphorical Mosh pit. I would get someone to drive me downtown on Saturday morning, to the outdoor mall or something, and I would bring my ukulele and a book and chill in a coffee shop. Maybe play some music if I feel so inspired. So I asked my Mom.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you could drop me off down town.”

“Why?”

“Just to chill in a coffee shop or something.”

“Are you going to meet up with someone?”

“No.”

“You want to go to downtown alone? You’re not like, secretly meeting up with someone? Like one of your “fans” or something?” (She was referring to the people I mentioned who liked my music last night.)

“No! I just want to go downtown and hang out. Like, get some coffee or read a book or something. Maybe bring my ukulele.”

“You’re going to play your ukulele downtown for money?”

“No, I just want to go down town.”

“That doesn’t sound safe!”

“To go downtown…in the day time….and drink coffee?”

“Yeah, you’re going alone? You’re not going with your cousin? What is Jenelle doing tomorrow?”

“MOM. I just want to go down town. In the DAYTIME. In PUBLIC. And maybe drink coffee in a shop or read a book or something.”

“Well….I don’t know….ask me tomorrow….”

At that point I said nevermind and texted my cousin Jenelle.

I’m twenty-two years old and my Mom is scared for me to leave my house alone. This kind of explains why I’m afraid to leave my house a lone. I think I should move out. But then I need a job….and a car….and a license….Which my power to get lies in the hands of whomever has free time to teach me to drive. WHICH IS MY MOM.

I am trapped. Being the youngest of eight and having surgery last year is not working in my favor.

If life is like a Mosh Pit, then I think I might currently be being trampled by my Mom’s loving arms and desire that I remain safe and protected from the outside world for as long as possible….and so I have to crawl out of that pit and join the smokers who are standing apart and just enjoying the music on the outside.

– cdukulele

Side note, I love my Mom and I do not intend to take up smoking, just escape the Mosh Pit of crushing love. I also don’t blame her for my complete lack of independence entirely. I recognize my fault, but she is not helping me be independent.

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Just chattin with God

Dear God,

It’s me.

You know, bone disease, broken hip, brain surgery girl?

Of course you do.

Well, God, I really like playing my ukulele and singing and writing stuff and making people laugh. So thanks for that.

Also, thanks for my Dad, who is the one who plays guitar and makes people laugh, and my Mom, who says things that make people laugh. I appreciate them, and they’ve given me a sense of humor.

So, I was just checking in, seeing how things were going up there. I figure you have some sort of idea or plan for me, right? Something?

Because I have little remnants of ideas, but they’re a bit scattered, and I’d prefer a professional’s opinion. Plus I really like this music and singing stuff, especially because it doesn’t require me sitting at a desk for more than an hour and putting too much pressure on my nerves. It merely requires sitting at a coffee shop for two hours, but there I can get up and stretch, and not worry about it too much.

Anyhow, I figure that you gave me my talents to do something with, so I’m also hoping you’ll just show me what to do.

I have to admit, that does sound a little lazy on my part, but I had brain surgery, remember? Okay, okay, it was just neurosurgery and it was a year ago, but my nerves still hurt! 

I mean, I just need something to do in the mean time, you know, for the next 60 years or so, until I’m up gallivanting around heaven with you. So, yeah. Feel free to shoot me some ideas. I’ll see you on Sunday.

Love ya!

– Catherine

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Darn technology.

There’s only one reason I check facebook as much as I do: to see if I have a message from you.

You may be concerned if you learned how many times I opened the little chat window and started writing a message to you, and then stopped.

“Just talk to me!” You’d probably think, and I’d agree with that sentiment, but I don’t know what to say anymore, and I don’t know if you care.

But you asked me to be your friend, well in person you did at least, so I figure you do care and probably want to hear what I have to say.

But I don’t know how to have small talk with you.

 

 

 

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Overthinking

OKAOKOKAOKAOKAY

So many emotions and I don’t know what to say.

Firstly, cute guy who said hi to me last week has a sister. I didn’t know that when he affectionately kissed her on the face. Apparently some families are much more affectionate than mine. My heart kind of broke when he kissed her. It was just a little, hello kiss, a very tiny non-consequential one, but I’ve been monitoring his interactions with women recently, and it made my heart crush a little to see him kiss a girl.
Luckily for me, his sister was talking to me at the time. For when you play a song about neurosurgery on your ukulele, and people really like it, they come up to you and tell you that. So she was complimenting me, along with another lady, and we were chatting away about music and I was wishing that her brother would talk to me, and then he appeared! I was very happy. THEN HE KISSED HER ON THE FACE. As I said before, my heart was crushed a little.

Then that wonderful woman he had kissed said to us, “Do you like my brother?” Oh that beautiful multi-layered question almost ensnared me. Joy at hearing the word “brother” overtook me, and I was almost confused to the point of saying “YES. Is he single?” Luckily, my brain kicked in, and so did my natural survival instincts, so I simply said “Yes, he has an amazing voice.”

I’m still wondering if he told her to come over and talk to me and find out what I thought of him…because that’s something I would have a sibling do for me. She was so smiley and nice and happy and wonderful….and then she asked if we liked her brother. That’s very interesting phrasing, isn’t it? Just a tad suspicious? I mean, why not say “Did you like my brother?” I mean, come on, past tense it lady! Why would you ask in the present tense unless you were trying to find out whether I was currently in love with your brother!??

Seriously. It’s a plot. Which means that he secretly likes me. And someday he will come up to me and tell me that. And I will be happy.

He really liked my music at least. Not that I was watching him while I sang or anything…Or to be fair, I was watching the entire room, and I just happened to especially notice whenever he laughed or smiled or applauded during my song. I liked seeing him smile. So happy and joyous. Plus everyone else that I looked at was smiling too. Now I’m starting to feel creepy like I shouldn’t have monitored the audience’s reactions so much…BUT I HAD TO.

Another guy came up to me in the last ten minutes before the coffee shop was closed and started telling me about how I should look up the open mic nights for comedians, and play my ukulele and sing my song or songs like the first song I performed. Unfortunately I only have one funny song about neurosurgery. Then he asked if I had a facebook page. I don’t know what he meant. “Like a page where I could listen to samples of your other songs?” Ha. That. Technology. No, I do not have that. But I gave him the impression that I did or would, and so now I have to go figure out if I can make a page and then invite him, because he gave me his facebook info. I’m thinking of calling it “cdukulele’s music” but I’ll probably just use my real name. Oh well.

So yeah, tonight was really fun…and apparently I’m good at songs and comedy.

– cdukulele

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Off into the cold, cold night.

I’m going to open mic night.

It’s freezing cold and I’ve run out of songs to sing.

I have my poem.

I always spend the first two hours of open mic night stressed and impatient.

In the last fifteen minutes I play my song. Then I’m hyper and overjoyed.

Let’s see how this goes.

See you later little followers.

Kind followers.

Safe within the warm confines of time and my computer screen.

Until we meet again.

– cdukulele

(I owe you guys some poems, and blogging. Hopefully tonight will be inspiring. PEACE!)

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Poetic complaint.

I shouldn’t sit at the computer so long writing poems for you.

It makes my leg and ankle hurt, it’s not what I’m supposed to do.

But I can’t help the writing, I can’t help this stupid urge to type.

I enjoy so much getting a follow or a like.

Plus then I tell myself, “Oh silly Cat, that pain is dull,

you can hardly feel it, it’s not even there at all!”

And then I go on writing, go on composing rhymes.

I try to rise and stretch, but I lose track of time.

My therapist would be mad at me, she would probably stand and glare,

but of course, lucky for you, my therapist’s not here.

For then I probably wouldn’t be writing, or at least not sitting while I write

And lying while writing makes it difficult to type.

But I probably shouldn’t burden you with these worries and these fears,

Because nothing’s going to stop me from typing to my ears.

I can’t help it, not when I have nothing else to do.

And, after all, I really do love typing for you.

 

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