When I was younger, a long, long- long time ago, I used to dream of being a princess and my prince would come and rescue me, he would hand me all my fantasies in a yellow basket and he would silently work in the midnight hour to ensure I have sweet dreams while I slept.  Yes, he had that sort of power, that magical being with kisses and safety.  Little did I know in life, there is no such thing, instead you are lucky to find a man who would be willing to work anywhere especially at a midnight hour and even more blessed if you found a man who would have a clue as to where to purchase a yellow basket.

I used to think expectations are a guaranteed way of allowing you to share in life’s disappointments.  Seriously, we are only disappointed when our expectations aren’t met, so screw expectations; let’s settle for whatever we get, compromise, so failure won’t have the last say.  Who am I kidding, we all want to expect something, enjoy it when we got it and cry when we didn’t, that’s life my friend.

I never wanted my life to be the way that it has turned out so far.  The whole divorced mother of two situations is a drag.  I watched TV shows from the fifties era, trust me; they would nod their heads in disappointment.  See what happened when they allowed Elvis to shake his hips, the world of pure and whole all decayed, darn King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, where is he? I have something to say.  They allowed music to rob us of our perfect society of a mother, a father, a son and daughter and perhaps a dog named Lucky.  Well, that’s what they tried to tell us THEN.  Today we have mixed races, scrambled family time and child support.   I think I like my world better than my grandparent’s.  So what if everyone was together, obviously they weren’t happy otherwise it would have never changed.

Darn Sixties is what happened that affected today’s youth, goofy notions of peace and love and then to top it off, the hideous color of mustard yellow combined with olive green, I blame those color schemes that have made me the way I am today.  Okay, so maybe not but hey its better than my story of marrying too young, thinking a baby would make it all better and moving away from home to prove my independence.  Darn Women’s movement and my ideas of individuality and becoming the woman my mother wouldn’t dare to become due to lack of properness.  Yes, I blame the color yellow and women liberals.  No, I blame myself. 

I wish I could write a whole book about how sad my life was and how I over came, then everyone would view me as a hero.  Everyone loves a powerful success story, the story where all the tears were reconciled with an unexpected victory.  For example, I want to come up write a story about how I fought against a system that rejected me.  Conquer a sickness that once threatened me or found a lover who once neglected me.  I want to create a good story, one that captures the imagination and holds it hostage until I convince the world how wonderful I am.  Yes, but someone already wrote those stories, stingy Walt Disney, he steals all the good ideas.

Seriously, if I was to write a story, I would write about my grandpa and how he laughed but words could never capture the magnitude of the light in the room when he told his stories and how he playfully fought with my grandma.  If I was to sit down and pour my heart out on paper and the words were my utensils, I would write about my children and how they have changed the colors of my once black and white world.  I could also write about my grandma and how I wish I could talk to her hands, the babies she has fed, the food she has cooked and tears she has soothed, stories that could be told only by her fingers.  I could write about my other grandma and her tragic losses and her memories of loved ones gone and born.  My dad, his broken heart or write about my mother and her optimism.  See, I could write stories but I would always be the innocent bystander, the reporter of news, the second hand witness. 

Maybe I can be a reporter, ride the tailgates of ambulances and ask everyone what they saw or how they felt.  I got it! I’ll be a Missionary and I’ll write about all the remote villages I have visited and I’ll write essays about how selfish Americans are and I’ll take pictures of the children.  Then again, maybe I think I should keep things the way they are now, I will just write my short stories and poems during work hours and maybe one day…when I’m dead, someone will read them and say “Wow…this chick was crazy”