Moving Day- a poem by ToryLynn

Backsore and armtired
And this empty room echoes
With a tinny vibration
How did it get this far?

Love loomed in these rooms
And now the silence sings
A different tale.
One of loss and hurt.

Close the door
And let the hum die down
Of a marriage lost to time
Leaving behind only

Two golden bands,
together on the counter
And two hearts
Going seperate ways.

Through the Screen

We use Skype. It's a comfort thing for us and sometimes we will talk into the night, or just sit and watch videos. Most of the time, we don't use the webcam, but sometimes we do, and we did, last night.  He laid down, and I laid down, and we talked, our heads sideways on our screens, matching eye for eye, lip for lip.  He reached out his hand as if to touch me, and I reached my hand is if to touch his, touching my screen, which was enlarged to full size so that he was nearly life size.  I sat like that, my hand on his, through the screen, wishing it could be our lips pressed together, our skin touching each other, when suddenly... I felt a give.

It wasn't anything that I could truly describe.  I remember wishing that I could touch him, and then there was a push and my hand slid forward, as if through the thin plastic barrier of my screen.  It almost felt a little bit like pushing through a really cold wall of butter. A lot of resistance, but once my fingers first went through, I knew that I could get through. There was no flash, no light, no sound of trumpets. Just a slight pop, and my hand was through the screen, and my fingers were met with warm, soft flesh. His eyes got big and his mouth formed a surprised O at this, but then he simply smiled, and tangled his fingers into mine, dragging them to his lips and kissing the tips of each finger.  My forearm gave a funny jolt and I could feel this though he was nearly three thousand miles away.  

I gave a tug, not separating our fingers, and there were two pops, one as my my hand returned to California, and one as his hand crossed over from New Jersey.  It was my turn to kiss fingertips and I suckled on one.  His smile widened and his eyes became dreamy and peaceful.  I tugged a little bit more, and his arm to the shoulder pulled through the screen.  I rewarded this with a kiss to his elbow and, though his face was obscured from me, I could hear a happy little noise escape him on the other side.  He pulled back against me, and, while keeping our hand still connected, contemplated me through the screen.

"Can you fit?" he asked.

I contemplated my wide hips and my large breasts and my expanse of shoulders and shook my head sadly.  "Can you?"

He pushed me back, our fingers still laced, and pressed his shoulder into the screen.  My monitor had always been pretty big. I liked to watch movies and it was the best thing for it, but his was small, just a tiny little netbook. He pressed his whole body forward and into the screen, up to his shoulder and stopped, releasing my hand and trailing his fingers up to my elbow to give a little squeeze.  I backed up and wrapped my fingers around his forearm (he was a little taller than me) and began to pull.  His scapula fit through, and the he pressed his head to his chest and I watched the top of his head crown through the screen, his face becoming distorted with the pressure.  I continued to pull and his arm wrapped around my waist as his head popped through and he looked a little bit dazed, but he was smiling, parts of him stuck through my screen. One arm in Jersey, the other in California, wrapped around my waist.  I kissed him, testing out the feel of lips on lips, and smiled when I found him warm and willing.  It only took a moment, and it was blissful, and then I was backing up again, pulling now with all of my might, as the other shoulder popped through and now his whole upper torso was in California.  Both hands grasped my waist, and I was afraid to let go of the physical connection, worried that if I did not anchor him here, he would slip back through the screen again.  So, with his hands on my waist, I began to push the monitor away from him, pulling through stomach, and back, wiggling the space around his hips, which stuck a bit and had to be forced, like a fat girl getting into years-old jeans, pushing flesh through the screen, pulling on the bits.  Once the hips were through, and he was laying on my keyboard, it was just a tug and a matter of slide as he his knees and feet popped through my screen, and he laid, face down, across my bed. 

I pulled him to a sitting position, still not wanting skin to release skin, and kissed him full and hard on the lips, even as we smiled around this sudden coupling.  He was here... and I was happy.  

I was worried that he would disappear if I let him go, that he would pop back to Jersey or just pop into non-existence, so many laws of physics and space and time had been broken.  He sat in front of me and he was here. His hands on my waist.  I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my whole body into him, and then slowly, incrementally, backed away, until my fingers were touching his and no other contact.  I took away one hand first, my left from his right, and then looked into his eyes and quickly, only for a fraction of a second, broke the contact between. He was still there.  I closed my eyes, and counted to three, not willing to believe in this good fortune, and when I opened them, he was still there.  I threw myself into his arms with a laugh, and his surprised, happy face met mine at lips and smile.  He was here.

We looked at the monitor, and the empty room on the other side, and laughed. He pressed his fingers against the plastic screen and there was a resistance there that was normal, the screen laid back. He couldn't get through it now, and my laptop laid there like a laptop does.

He asked "How am I going to get back?"

"Who cares?" I answered, and kissed him again.

We would worry about that in the morning.

The bitch queen of the Universe

This is Calliope Jones. Don't let her adorable little Caliconess give you the idea that she is sweet. This precious exterior houses the spawn of Satan himself.

It took a while after Kabal Alexander, the Wonder cat, died for Kevin to warm to the idea of getting another cat, but Puck was lonely and his constant meowing in search for his big brother was driving us crazy. So, we went to the pet store to look at the shelter cats, and there she was. She pawed at the window and made baby cries. Her tag said she was 6 months old, but she looked smaller, younger. Her mewling baby cries were adorable and we decided to give her a shot.

When she peed on me while I was sleeping that first night, we forgave her due to the fact that she was so young and probably wasn't well box trained. (She has repeated this act a few times, and usually when her litterbox isn't up to standard.) Her predilection for suckling on fingers led us to believe she had been taken from her mother at a very young age.

After a terse period with Puck, they soon were sharing beds and food dishes. She fit in well, but was shy around strangers and indifferent to me. She loves Kevin. He is her human.

Because she is long haired, we find ourselves cleaning up hairballs nearly daily. Gross, but we can handle it. She barely eats anything and thumbs her nose at almost every wet food we offer.

The main reason she is a bitch is her attention whoriness. Attention is on her terms and if you don't pay attention when she wants it, she lashes out with vampire fangs that tear into your skin. I am sure she is only trying to emulate Puck's habit of a gentle nip to get my hand to pet him, but she doesn't understand his restraint.

Her favorite place to seek love is at the foot of the bed. In fact that is pretty much where she lives. Usually, when I am getting ready for work, and she will pace back and forth. If I offer a pet and then turn my back, if she is desparate, she will lunge and sink her fangs into the nearest body part. So far my elbows, hands and wrists bear the mark of her insanity.

But, she is ours. We know how to live with her. I guess people get used to crazy. After all, Kevin has been with me for 17 years.

posted from Bloggeroid

Panera and Not Reading

This is where I work in the morning. I have a bagel and a coffee and read an article (usually about pedagogy) as I eat and when I'm done, I will open up my laptop and look at curriculum options.

I read an interesting article in the English journal about students not reading. It discusses how through comprehension questions and common essay tests, teachers give their students permission to not read the materials and instead use the internet and study guides like SparkNotes or Cliffs Notes. The article, by Robert Broz, says that to combat not reading that teachers need to focus on reading journals and small group discussion where students negotiate meaning for themselves, rather than study guides with binary answers and teacher led discussions that let students glean information from the teacher rather than think for themselves and then regurgitate that information back on tests and in essays. This article inspires me and scares me at the same time. I think this is a great idea, but I can just imagine the student resistance to the idea that they actually have to read. It will also require that I move away from the publisher provided ancillary materials and make my students responsible for their own learning. I know that I will return to my table at Panera this summer. I will take my textbook, my lesson plan book and a new outlook on teaching. Watch this space for updates on my journey. Tory

LOOK!!! I made my bed.

Spent a long night not sleeping well,  so I cleaned most of my bedroom and made my bed this morning. My mom would be so proud.

I hate to clean. Not my strongest point. My family, specifically my mom and sister, are nearly OCD neat freaks. I missed that genetic defect. I love them both dearly and they have excellent taste in decorating, but in my opinion, nobody is going to think less of me if there is dust on my furniture. If they do judge me by my dust, then they really don't need to be in my house. I hate chores and never developed those time consuming habits that take me away from writing the great American novel or throwing myself into great literature (... or hanging out in Second Life or watching Mythbusters or killing orcs in LOTRO). I have better things to do than clean.

My darling wonderful husband usually point out that I only clean when I am upset. He has a point. When I need to think things over, a good load of dishes or making the bed really helps to clear my mind. That means I either stay in a thoughtful upset mood if want a clean house, or deal with a messy house. I like being happy. I will live with the mess.

Incidentally, studies show that making your bed actually encourages dust mites and bed bugs who like the warm pockets of air that a good made bed offers. So... discourage bugs.. and don't make your bed.

Smart phone?

Hehe.. so, my loving husband caved and finally bought me a smart phone and now I have a blogger app. So maybe now that I have a blogger app and a really fun camera app, Maybe I will start actually blogging again. So, for my newfound narcissism, I offer this fun picture of my living room. I love black and white photography, so I may offer a new photo every time I post a new blog. Seems like a good idea anyway.

I really don't have anything witty or important to say. I don't expect anybody to really read this. It will just be random stuff that I find amusing or whatever. Maybe I will write about amusing news. Maybe I will post funny YouTube videos. Maybe I will even write about my writing. One never knows.... but I will always try to add a picture.

If you're still reading... thank you. I hope I can keep up with this better.

Tory