(No, it’s not a word. I don’t care, either, because I feel uninspired lately, which is the opposite of inspired, so (obviously) uninspiration is the opposite of inspiration.)
I want to write something wonderfully poignant, something that captures the attention of whoever is reading this, something that really encapsulates the weird, float-y stage I feel like I am in, that illustrates the beauty of the changing fall weather outside, the coziness that comes with warm kitchens, cool winds and falling leaves… I want to write something that draws my life in the perfect, little box I want it to fit into. Reading the NieNie dialogues just inspires this more, and my heart grows with desire to have pretty colors and pillows, and, a calm yet inspiring life where people can read and feel like ‘ah, that’s a life’. I want to inspire you, as readers, to read more. To be interested in my life, in my everyday occurrences and pictures. But mostly, to be interested in your own life, your happenings and snapshots of life that capture the day for you. So, since I don't have a family of my own, I thougth I would write about a family that reminded me of my own...
Tuesday night I was walking the dogs on the south side of 17th Avenue. (sidebar: I say ‘south side’ to make a clear distinction- 17th Avenue marks an unseen division of neighborhoods, incomes, political leanings, and sizes of dogs. Those on the south side, my side, of 17th are the Mayfair bunch: young, hipster singletons or couples with small children, little bungalows and big dogs that like to hike. We make enough money, and some make more money than they should doing what they do, but the south-siders are typically liberal, artsy-fartsy folk that don’t talk about money as much as Colorado Life. The north side of 17th avenue is the Park Hill side: older money, older people, older and larger houses. These older couples are typically empty nesters with small, yappy dogs found walking in pairs with the older woman and her ipod on the parkway. The houses are large and beautiful, and the kind you see with Sotheby’s for-sale signs out front).
As I was saying… we were walking, on the south side of 17th, and there was a couple of men on the opposite sidewalk, talking. One older, one my age and relatively attractive; the older one was clearly the owner of the house they were standing in front of, and the father of the children playing inside the yard. Suddenly, the little boy in the backyard runs to the front of the fence, alongside the house, throws his hands up over his head, leans into the fence and curls his fingers around the chainlink and presses his face into it. ‘DAD’, he cries loudly, ‘Audrey called me stoop and poop! And it’s dinner time!!’
Dad turns and looks at little Stoop Poop, and turns back to his business with the younger man. Audrey, the name-caller, bursts out of the front door, her hand still on the doorknob, yelling ‘DAD! It’s dinner time!’ Stoop Poop remains leaned into the fence, his voice getting whinier, ‘Audrey called me stoop and poop! Audrey yells, ‘It’s dinner time!’ Still no response from Dad, or younger, hotter gentleman.
I smile, and keep walking, ears perked. I have two sisters. I lived with my dad once. I remember these days.
‘Audrey called me stoop and poop!’
‘It’s dinner time!
‘Audrey called me stoop and poop!’
‘It’s dinner time!
‘AUDREY CALLED ME STOOP AND POOP!’
‘IT’S DINNER TIME!’
I hear it the whole way down the block, and astoundingly enough, Dad never turns around or addresses the kids- ever.
I have no idea what happened after I turned the corner with the dogs. Did Audrey get in trouble for calling names? Did Stoop Poop get in trouble for tattling? Did Dad ever tear himself away from his business with the man on the street to eat dinner? Did the hot young man swear off having kids completely after this shenanigan?
I will never know. But I am nosy enough that I may walk by again later tonight around 6:30 to see if it’s dinner time again.
I want to write something wonderfully poignant, something that captures the attention of whoever is reading this, something that really encapsulates the weird, float-y stage I feel like I am in, that illustrates the beauty of the changing fall weather outside, the coziness that comes with warm kitchens, cool winds and falling leaves… I want to write something that draws my life in the perfect, little box I want it to fit into. Reading the NieNie dialogues just inspires this more, and my heart grows with desire to have pretty colors and pillows, and, a calm yet inspiring life where people can read and feel like ‘ah, that’s a life’. I want to inspire you, as readers, to read more. To be interested in my life, in my everyday occurrences and pictures. But mostly, to be interested in your own life, your happenings and snapshots of life that capture the day for you. So, since I don't have a family of my own, I thougth I would write about a family that reminded me of my own...
Tuesday night I was walking the dogs on the south side of 17th Avenue. (sidebar: I say ‘south side’ to make a clear distinction- 17th Avenue marks an unseen division of neighborhoods, incomes, political leanings, and sizes of dogs. Those on the south side, my side, of 17th are the Mayfair bunch: young, hipster singletons or couples with small children, little bungalows and big dogs that like to hike. We make enough money, and some make more money than they should doing what they do, but the south-siders are typically liberal, artsy-fartsy folk that don’t talk about money as much as Colorado Life. The north side of 17th avenue is the Park Hill side: older money, older people, older and larger houses. These older couples are typically empty nesters with small, yappy dogs found walking in pairs with the older woman and her ipod on the parkway. The houses are large and beautiful, and the kind you see with Sotheby’s for-sale signs out front).
As I was saying… we were walking, on the south side of 17th, and there was a couple of men on the opposite sidewalk, talking. One older, one my age and relatively attractive; the older one was clearly the owner of the house they were standing in front of, and the father of the children playing inside the yard. Suddenly, the little boy in the backyard runs to the front of the fence, alongside the house, throws his hands up over his head, leans into the fence and curls his fingers around the chainlink and presses his face into it. ‘DAD’, he cries loudly, ‘Audrey called me stoop and poop! And it’s dinner time!!’
Dad turns and looks at little Stoop Poop, and turns back to his business with the younger man. Audrey, the name-caller, bursts out of the front door, her hand still on the doorknob, yelling ‘DAD! It’s dinner time!’ Stoop Poop remains leaned into the fence, his voice getting whinier, ‘Audrey called me stoop and poop! Audrey yells, ‘It’s dinner time!’ Still no response from Dad, or younger, hotter gentleman.
I smile, and keep walking, ears perked. I have two sisters. I lived with my dad once. I remember these days.
‘Audrey called me stoop and poop!’
‘It’s dinner time!
‘Audrey called me stoop and poop!’
‘It’s dinner time!
‘AUDREY CALLED ME STOOP AND POOP!’
‘IT’S DINNER TIME!’
I hear it the whole way down the block, and astoundingly enough, Dad never turns around or addresses the kids- ever.
I have no idea what happened after I turned the corner with the dogs. Did Audrey get in trouble for calling names? Did Stoop Poop get in trouble for tattling? Did Dad ever tear himself away from his business with the man on the street to eat dinner? Did the hot young man swear off having kids completely after this shenanigan?
I will never know. But I am nosy enough that I may walk by again later tonight around 6:30 to see if it’s dinner time again.
not just stoop, but poop too. now THAT's uncalled for.
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