Because inspiration starts with a plain brown box.
Enjoy!
To Cover or Not to Cover
The line was long, snaking around the corner and out the door. Not too surprising, as the conference attendees were about 3 to 1 women.
And so I waited, patiently, to relieve myself.
I was lost in thought, my mind swirling around all of the information it had taken in so far at the Annual SCWBI Western Washington Conference. But a sound caught my attention, the harsh swish of tissue whooshing up, before being yanked back down.
My ears perked up.
The stalls were out of sight, but I found myself listening to the clank of stall doors opening and closing, and the swishing of toilet seat covers being pulled from their containers.
But the sounds were not equal. There was not a crinkle of tissue for every stall door that was slammed closed and locked.
And it made me wonder, what is the deciding factor for seat cover usage? Do some “assess” the bathroom and make a decision based on cleanliness and odds of use? Maybe it comes down to a germ-a-phobic’s paranoid nature? Or is it just so engrained, that it is done without thought? Do guys use them? Do you use them?
So I ask, when do you decide to cover? Or not.
PS – I think of myself as a pretty with it, in the now kind of person, keeping relevant on the strange and wonderful things that make up this world, but honestly, I had no idea there was such a market for “custom toilets lids.”
Seriously, people!
I’ve included a few of the best for you to enjoy (or purchase, if you’re so inclined).
5 things I like about you
I saw him out of the corner of my eye, his gait a saunter as I snapped a picture of my boys on our city adventure.
But he stopped, did a double take, and walked back toward me, garnering my full attention. His skin was aged and tanned like leather, his front teeth missing, his eyes shaded by crooked sunglasses. But it was his voice that stood out to me — low and raspy, like Tom Waits.
He rested an elbow on his crossed arm and tapped his lips with a finger before asking, “Can I tell you the five things I like about you?”
My head tilted to the side, caught off guard by the unexpected question. I glanced over at my boys climbing through an art structure with their buddies, blissfully unaware of the man speaking to me.
“Sure,” I said, my curiosity piqued.
“First,” continuing to tap his lips, “I like the way you have your hair pulled up, and,” he pointed his finger at my ear, swirling the air, “your hoop earrings. I like the way they dangle.”
I smiled.
He paused and pointed a bit lower. “And your collar bone. I like the shape of your collar bone.” My stomach clinched, hoping his assessment was not going to go point for point down my body.
But he surprised me with a quirk of his lips. “Your toes,” he said, pointing toward my flips flops. “I like the color of your toes and the way you cuffed your jeans. Rolled up is nice.”
That was it. That was five.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded and continued on his way, the grin stretched across my face the only evidence of the encounter.
It was simple. It was painless. It was unexpected.
So I ask, when was the last time you told someone
five things you like about them?
Awkward Moment
I have two boys. One six, the other four. While we have discussed the differences between girls and boys, we have not yet traversed over “the talk”. You know, “THE talk”.
I keep waiting for hints — a sign — that they are ready to hear and listen about the birds and the bees without too much blushing (on my part) and giggling (on their part).
So, I was unprepared, when I innocently pulled into a local coffee drive-thru shack with the boys in the backseat. I was desperate for caffeine.
It was early. Too early to be dealing with anything out of the ordinary.
I had yet to wake up, so it took me a few eye-gawking moments to take in our lovely barista. She was beautiful, her rich chocolate skin glowing and smooth, but it was her push-up camisole and lacy boy shorts, perfectly enhancing her round “cheeks” that had my boys spinning in the back seat.
“Mom, why is that girl dressed like that?”
“She’s wearing her swimsuit.” Snicker. Snicker. “It cold. Is she cold?”
“Is that a swimsuit, mom?”
“You’re not suppose to wear a swimsuit in the winter.” Giggle. Giggle. Whisper, “I see her butttttt.”
On and on it went, for the painful five minutes it took to get my caffeine. Which, by the way, I didn’t need anymore. I was fully awake. But what is a mom to do? I did what any brilliant mother would do. I snatched up the lie and ran with it. “Yes honey, she is wearing her swimsuit. How silly is that?”
As we pulled away, I heard more snickers coming from my four-year-old and under his breath mutter, “I saw her butt.” A fact he reminds me of every time I pull into a coffee drive-thru.
So I ask, any awkward moments for you?
Hats
I tried to count them, the number of hats I wear on my head in any given day, and I realized I couldn’t. The number continued to change and morph, never adhering to a standard form or rhyme.
The list would start simple, a mom, a wife, a graphic designer, a writer, a musician, a homeowner, a sister, a neighbor, a friend . . . and every time I would add another item to the list, there seemed to be an outline of bullet points under each of the headers, making the list endless: a short-order cook, a dog-walker, a taxi driver, an administrative assistant, an accountant, a confident, a personal shopper, a nurse.
In doing this, it made me realize that while my roles are endless, time is not.
And so, I breath a sigh of relief for the failed schedule I set out for myself and give myself the grace to re-plan, re-plot, and start again.
So I ask, how many hats do you where?
Lingerings
There are not many. They really are few and far between. Books that, long after you have read the last page, the last word, the last scene, haunt your dreams. Your fiber. Your very essence.
You wake up with them.
You fall asleep to them.
Threads of their beauty linger in you, changing you forever.
So I ask, what book lingers in you?
A 4-Year-Olds Stream of Conscious
“Mama, how do God make everybody?”
“That’s a great question, Kincaid. Lots of scholars ask that same question everyday.”
“But how He do it? Does God have a magic wand?”
“Sort-of.”
“Maybe He an elevator that comes down the chimney.”
“You think God is an elevator?”
“Yeah. With arms. And he put us toge’der in our beds.”
“Maybe.”
“But how he get ‘da skin on?”
“I think it’s all part of the same process.”
“I think he uses scissors and cuts the skin on.”
“Maybe sews the skin on?”
“No, just scissors. But how He get the hair to stick on our heads?”
“That’s another good question, Kincaid, how do you think He gets the hair on?”
“Glue. He cut one end and then the other, and glue it on. But why Jim Fox always cut his hair off?”
“Some people don’t like to have hair.”
“I think it tickles him.”
“You think God made everyone’s hair so it would tickle?”
“No, just Jim’s.”
