Superhero Kitten-Pants: A Poem

Three kittens to save, with only two hands
So he shoved the odd one down his pants.

Down from the tree, there arose a great shout
When the third one peaked its head on out.

The outcry was such, that he nearly died
For it had been in his underwear, right beside--

Though he had not technically broken the law,
He paid a price, for it wasn't declawed. 

So after all the lawsuits and legal fights,
Superheroes now wear only tights.

The Jester's Girlfriend: A Pseudo-Poem

The great burly huntress

had gallantly rescued him 

from thugs trying to steal his beautiful jester-suit.   

By all the laws of chivalry, he now belonged to her.

She told him tender things, 

such as, “I always did love smaller men; 

they’re lighter to lift and easier to discipline.”

She talked about all their strong strapping daughters, 

and wondered aloud if they would have any small and quiet sons.

While she was busy, he saw his chance to run away.

But he didn’t realize that she could track him.

Now, hanging from a snare 

in a tree by his ankle, 

he screams that he is not sorry 

and will never, ever learn his lesson.

(“Easier to discipline…?”)

She cut him down, 

but he couldn’t run away 

when she sat on him.

In the forest there is a sudden slapping sound. 

He stops screaming very abruptly.

She’s still mad at him, 

so she spanks him again and again. 

He can’t say he’s sorry loud enough.

He behaved himself from that day forward. 

Indeed, he was very agreeable. 

And she lived happily ever after…

…And now the jester can’t stop bitching about it.

(But only when she’s not around.)

Oh, yeah, and she also started a blog...

Excert From My New Book, Links, And Back Story

 

The knight sat alone, on one end of the banquet hall’s second table, lost in his own little world of thoughts and troubles. He glanced over to where the King sat, at the head of the largest table, between his two closest advisers. His long gray hair reached down towards his shoulders, cascading from the ornate crown that topped his head.

The man to his right was the knight’s superior, General Mortain, Commander of the King’s Army. To the king’s left sat the Minister of The Realm, Lord Walbrook, tax collector to the King. Weighed down by more than chain mail and armor, the knight could not eat, for he knew both men were coveting the crown.

The letter hidden near his breast - the treacherous, treasonous letter - it weighed far more than the iron mail that covered him. Why had he come here? Why had he not stayed in his safe comfortable shire, sheltered from the politics of the court?

He knew the answer: because he was a knight, raised to be honorable, and he could not simply stand by, knowing what he now knew. Another reason: he had come to save the king’s life.

But how? How could he accuse such high ranking men – lords in the King’s Court, and not get his head cut off? Why, one of them was his own superior, the very man he reported to in times of battle!

“Oh, m’lords, I wish I did not know anything,” he sighed to himself. “And my king, I wish you knew everything.”

His attention was distracted for a moment by the antics of the court jester, in his suit and hat of black and white stripes, eating off the General’s plate without being asked. The General did not seem happy about it, but it amused the king, so reluctantly he had to go along. The knight could just read his thoughts: As soon as this old man is gone, that jester’s going to get it!

Well, that would be one positive side effect, at least. He hated that jester. The little man was like a fly buzzing in his face, which would not cease. He supposed that since the smaller man was not strong enough to be a knight, all he had left was annoying people.

The Royal Idiot (the jester, not the king!) was speaking now. “And let us not forget our favorite glutton, Sir Roger!”

Roger cringed. Not now! He had enough to worry about, without having to relive his humiliations. Earlier that day he had fallen into a huge vat of beer, ruining the whole batch. He was not sure if the other knights avoided sitting next to him because they were embarrassed, or because they were mad at him for not letting them get drunk tonight. And now that horrible jester would not let him live it down!

The Fool hopped over to his table, resting his head on his hands in front of the knight. “Tell us, Honorable Sir Roger, why could you not restrain yourself until a wench poured it in a cup for you?”

The jester was looking into his eyes, and though he was not allowed to smile, the man seemed to take some evil delight in humiliating him. There was a triumph, a gleam in his eye. Was the man crazy? What had Roger done to him, anyway? He knew other knights that liked to make sport of him, but he had always left him well enough alone. Why couldn’t that hated clown at least return the favor?

This only made him more sure of his dislike for the man. He hated having him in his face. “Go away, you stupid ass,” he sneered, quiet enough for only one person to hear, “or I’ll cut your nose off.”

The jester merely cocked his head, didn’t seem to be affected by that threat in the least. He had heard it all before. All knights made threats; they were all the same to him.

“I wonder,” he said loudly as he turned away, “what is the greater shame: Sir Roger’s insatiable gluttony, or the fact that he has created the biggest chamber pot in the world!”

The entire banquet hall roared with laughter - at his expense. The jester had no limits; he pressed further, this time with a new target.

“I even saw His Majesty drinking it! Said it was the best ale he had ever tasted!” More howling and slapping the knees. The King loved it, clearly delighted to be mocked, roasted by his clever Fool.

“If I said that, I would be flogged!” Roger muttered sourly.

“But good General, do ye have to fling knights while testing out your catapults?” the Fool went on. “Why, I would have rather flung your good friend, Lord Walbrook! ‘Twould be a service to the kingdom!”

Roger couldn’t believe what the man was getting away with. And he was treated as a hero for it.

“But, Sir Fool,” the old king smiled happily, “what would I do without my advisers? How would I know what was best for the kingdom?”

“Trade that crown for a jester’s cap, and you will feel wiser instantly!” He was sharp-witted, Roger had to grant him that.

He abruptly excused himself, before his ignorant co-counter-conspirator could turn on him again. As he thought about it, he became more and more excited. ‘Twould be so easy! The kingdom would be saved!

(See The Jester, Thomas Fool, On Amazon)


When you have lived with the Jester as long as I have, you start to dream of wizards and dragons, you start saying things like "'tis" and "'twasn't," and finally, one night, you get bored and ask him to relate his memoirs to you. And once he knows you are interested, he just won't stop talking. The stories keep on coming. 'Tis like a curse.
This is my attempt to heap my own misery on the world.  Enjoy.

I Cry Myself To Sleep, Part Two

My cat had kittens, five of them. Four of them survived, but they were so small, that was almost no big deal. They grew up. My favorite, Elmo, got scared by the dog barking at her, fell off the roof, broke her back, and died right in front of me. Her anus was open like a hole, she smelled of urine, her eyes were glazed and lifeless, and her body became stiff with her head turned at an angle. I wrapped her in a towel and just sat rocking her, with her sister looking on, until my dad came home and took her away. We still have the dog that scared her. Her sister is especially bonded to me.

My horse died last February, a few weeks after my birthday. She had been my friend for eight years, and I have never met a horse that acted so much like a tame dog. She was big and white, all white, and she used to rub her head on me until I had to hold her mane for balance.

And that is all I can think of.

I assure you that all of these stories are completely true, they just look too dramatic even for me, who’s lived them. Sometimes I don’t even know, which one is it this time? Why does my heart hurt tonight?

I function all right. Most of the time I succeed in staying up until I’m too tired to think about it. Even though I know I should cry, I always find myself wondering, “When can I stop crying? When is it going to end?”

Oh yeah, I finally “lost” my religion a few years ago too. I can’t pretend to be a joyful Christian anymore. When I pray about my circumstances, I don’t feel better. The bible isn’t comforting. So I don’t try anymore. I always wished I could be divinely comforted and strengthened, but I got a rude lesson about that very early. God, apparently, ignores me. (I know, I should not think that way. Please don’t try to tell me about God, I’ve heard it all before.)

During “show and tell” in my church youth group, when I was still trying to make it work, Joey Schlabitz said “Let me guess, something died?” when it was my turn.

I said, “No, but something’s about to.” And everyone broke into huge laughter.

His words still haunt me to this day. “Let me guess, something died?”

Maybe I don’t “cry myself to sleep” every night. But even if my body isn’t crying, my heart is. I laughed a few times when I wrote this blog. I also cried, it hurt. I guess that’s how life is.

I Cry Myself To Sleep Every Night

I moved to the country with my parents when I was eleven. Then my dog died. She was old.

We had a new dog, but the cat lost her mind and attacked my new dog and my dad shot the cat. The first cat I ever had, the one I picked out from a litter that my third-grade teacher, who lived on the next street over before I moved, gave birth to. (Or maybe it was her cat…)

I had a bunny but it ran away. The meth addict neighbor bought it for me, then she released three others in her yard for her boys. She thought the horse fence would keep in something as small as a rabbit. My mom thought I put deodorant on the bunny, because of a weird misunderstanding. Dog Number Two would come in my room and eat her poop like candy (the rabbit’s, not my mom’s). Then she chewed her way out of the cage, probably had five dozen babies, and maybe got eaten by now.

Then it all started happening at once.

Meth Addict Neighbor decided she hated my mom and we couldn’t see Helpless Little Meth Baby anymore. He was almost two years old. He would run down the hill to our house and stay for a few hours, maybe every few weeks, before she realized he was missing. Sometimes his four-year-old brother would come down with him and ask for food. He would be in his underwear in wintertime too.

There was a long custody battle in which my mom testified about all the horrible stuff she (we) saw in those three years. Drunken Redneck Dad got custody of both boys, but for a long time it was agonizingly uncertain.

Cute Little Meth Baby was never ours, but we loved him and knew we could take care of him better. We still know it, and he still isn’t ours.

About the time Meth Baby was taken from us, my former horseback riding instructor died of colon cancer. She had been my first adult friend.

I had a baby wild turkey that had been abandoned by its mother in a posthole. This was right after both the baby incident and the riding teacher tragedy, and it lived twelve days. I shook it and poked it, desperately trying to make it get up, but it was too sick to move, so it just closed its eyes and died. When you’re still a kid, this is devastating. I had taken a CPR class recently and once had to “do CPR” and “clear the obstruction” when it tried to swallow a grasshopper longer than its head. I had been so proud to feed it to her, too.

Second Dog ran away, got caught in a coyote trap at the neighbor’s, and he had to “end her pain.” We didn’t find out until after the deed was done. My mom loved that dog because she killed snakes.

My neighbor across the street was moving away and he promised to give me his tiny goat, Rod. My dad, who hates goats, loved him because he looked like “Billy Goat’s Gruff.” This neighbor had befriended and probably had sex or did drugs with the Meth Neighbor. His next-door neighbor’s oldest son was kind of my ex-boyfriend. I don’t know if he knew of the deal or not. But then Rod escaped Mike’s house and visited “Ernie,” and Ernie shot him. “The stupid goat jumped into the bullet.” Yeah, sure, goats jump faster than bullets fly. I hate that kid.

I was in the local “Young Eagles” program as a teenager, in which kids got the chance to fly in a small plane for free. My dad had worked for a friend of the woman who organized it and flew for it, and Sadie took me up twice. Then I got a job covering the county fair for the local newspaper, as a “teen reporter.” I asked her to take me up over the fairgrounds for an aerial picture. She was so nice, she actually did it.

Then, right out of a noval, she died in a plane crash a few months later. A plane crash! She was a pilot—why didn’t she “help” the other guy with his pre-flight? Oh, the drama.

The last time I saw her, I was at the fair with Goat Killer, when I still thought he was a good person. She was wearing a polka-dot dress and bright red lipstick, and laughing at me for being with a boy. She looked so very happy.

Like Sunshine On My Nipples

Ever since I wrote the post “I Want To Feel The Sunshine On My Nipples,” I have been challenged and surprised whenever I come up against my old excuses. One way I have been limiting myself is in regards to exercise. I have often had the thought “Why bother working out? I still won’t be as strong as the average man.” But then, who says I have to be, or that I won’t? I guess I’m harsher with myself than I care to admit.

My grandfather, Papa, surprised me the other day. I like to drive his old pickup truck, a 1964 GMC Jimmy. I’ve even been to the mechanic’s recently with him. He told me the story of his mechanic telling him to put power steering in the Jimmy, because “She’s such a little girl.”

“But I told him, ‘She’s stronger than she looks, boy! She’s tough!’”

He loved telling the story, and it made me feel good to hear it. For years he sort of coddled me, “I’ll get that, Baby. It’s heavy.” It used to bother me, but then I decided it wasn’t that important. I wonder if he changed his mind because I didn’t care anymore.

I used to have a German pen pal, back in my Taekwondo days. I learned two new words from her: “zierlich und zerbrechlich.” I looked “petite and fragile” to her.

I’m afraid my reply didn’t make me seem very smart. I must have used the word “coarse” or “vulgar” for “tough,” and I think when referring to my body I used the word for “corpse!” I didn’t hear from her again, and no wonder. (What’s the German word for “moron?”)

So I guess I don’t look like a body builder. For years it bothered me, and it still does, sometimes. When I was in school I was kind of a pushover. I want to look tough, so no one will pick on me. It’s hard to get over your fears when you’re afraid to be seen as prey. Maybe someday I won’t see potential bullies everywhere I go.

I have noticed that relative muscle strength is actually a variable that changes day by day and hour by hour. The four factors that affect it are:

Diet—sugar bad, protein good. 

Rest—deprivation bad, sleep good.

Exercise—not too much, not too little.

Hydration—plenty of water, but nothing with sugar or natural sugar or caffeine.

It’s that simple. I’m not a fitness nut at all, but I know the factors that affect my strength. If I’m sleep-deprived, dehydrated, tired, and just finished a bowl of ice cream, guess what? I won’t be as strong as I normally would.

I eat sugar, but I try to limit myself. It’s all about balance. It also doesn’t hurt, if you know how your thoughts are inhibiting your potential. Only then can you challenge these unhelpful thoughts and overcome them.

So I lied. There are only five things you need to worry about, on your way to building physical strength. You cannot build physical strength if you do not also build mental strength. And only then, once you feel good about yourself, can you conquer the world. 

 

"Shit On Your Neighbor" And The Value Of Writing People Off

Among my Christian friends, I have sometimes had the impression, based on annoyed but “sad” facial expressions, of being written off as lost, because of something I said or did that wasn’t kosher.

“Well, she’s lost,” I can just see the subtitle of their thoughts. I can read it on their face, that I’m blinded by the devil and they need to pray for me (because of something I said?). It has annoyed me to no end in the past, but now I wonder if they’re not onto something.

There is a value, actually, in writing people off. It frees you from the responsibility of having a relationship with them, changing them, or dwelling on what aggravates you about them. Imagine mentally handing them a note that says, “You’re not my problem anymore.”

Often we assign roles to people and certain expectations along with the roles. We want perfect parents, aunts, uncles and friends. For example, I expect my aunt to get off my case about using psuedo-cusswords like “That was freaking huge,” and calling our card game what it really is, Shit On Your Neighbor.

The teacher in our brain grades people according to how we think they should be, not how they actually are. I am actually in favor of a double standard, as far as this goes. There should not be the same standard for everyone, because some people simply cannot perform well as a parent, grandparent, or person. This is not about letting someone off the hook; it’s about protecting yourself from being hurt.

Hurt feelings only result from unmet expectations. Once you lower your expectations for them, they cannot hurt you as much.

I spent many years becoming sad and emotional over the way people had treated me, until one day I realized that I needed to assign them new expectations.

Now I have new, lowered expectations for people. I expect my grandfather not to be conscientious about taking his supplements. I expect my aunt to get me in trouble for saying the word “pussy.”

We’ve all heard the old clichés of “Love people as they are,” and “Accept people on their own terms.” That’s great advice, but I see little practical application for it, no actual instructions for how to implement it. But I think I’ve actually found a way to do it, though loving them is optional.

But first, you often must stop being in denial about them. You cannot accept people as they are without first acknowledging what they are. And here's how:

Write a list of expectations for each person that bothers you. Think also of how you will protect yourself from them, whether they mean to hurt you or not. Then stick to your plan. Don’t feel guilty about it. As long as they don’t change, you don’t have to. Lower your standards, then set up boundaries.

Then, when they do something that crosses the line, you will be prepared for it. It will not surprise you. It will not be as devastating.

It won’t erase hurt feelings, but the mantra “I expected this” will help you get over most of the shock.

Have your list handy, though out of sight. When they do something that makes you cringe, that bothers you, when you think about them and obsess over “Why are they this way?” “Why do they do that?” refer back to your list and comfort yourself that you actually saw this coming, or put a new item on the list. 

Another important thing to remember is to make this list as impersonal as possible. Use their real names, not family names, or put their family names in quotes. Reducing the emotional to the practical helps you sort through your feelings.

You can do this for anyone. Don’t feel guilty because it’s your friend, mother, sister, husband, pastor or even God. You can certainly love them without thinking everything is rosy, love is a separate issue. After doing this exercise, you may decide that being around them is too much negativity, and limit your contact with them if you can. If you can’t, at least you feel prepared.

I did this for everyone that had hurt my feelings, or aggravated me. Because of my strict religious background, I also decided to make a list pertaining to God. It’s not blasphemy, it’s just my imperfect expectations. God can handle it, I think.

And if they exceed your expectations, if they suddenly become the person you wanted them to be, then that is wonderful! You can enjoy the surprise without comparing them with an impossible standard. In other words, you can relish any kind of progress, however incremental.

  

And if they never change? Then that is fine too. You have more room to live your life, and it’s no longer about them. This practice frees up your brainspace to be creative, to be happy, to come up with ideas and to avoid such negative distractions. It frees you up to live your own life, not theirs.

And don’t forget, the stuff they do may still make you cry. It’s okay to be upset. Just don’t be surprised.