The Life and Times of Poopwa Foley

Archive for the ‘poopwa foley’ Category

“Do You Want Fries with That?” by Christine Cacciatore.

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For a while, I wasn’t sleeping at all at night.  Total insomnia.  To the point that I started worrying a little bit after oh, say 9:00 p.m.  I built it up in my head.  I know I won’t be able to sleep.  I know it.  I’ll get into bed and lay there for hours.  I was tired, exhausted even; but the minute my head hit the pillow I laid there, wide awake. 

here’s me.  not sleeping.

Things got better for a while, thanks to my good friend Southern Comfort.  I was able to break through whatever it was keeping me awake and actually get some real rest at night.  Whatever cycle I had been experiencing was over, apparently.  
 
At least, that’s what I thought. 
 
It was a Sunday like many other Sundays.  The cars started. It rained but we didn’t get water in our basement.  The dog didn’t run away.  Dinner was good.  Nothing earth shattering.   
 
However, Sunday night around 10:30 p.m., my husband and I kissed each other good night, as we always do, cuddled for approximately 10.7 seconds until it got wayyyy too hot, and then turned over to our respective spots.  I hadn’t even given my sleeplessness a thought.  I burrowed further into the covers.   

And laid there.  A half hour went by.  I knew my husband was awake.  He knew I was awake too because he says my eyes make a sound when I blink.   

We laid there some more.  And laid there.  Another half hour went by and…  

…we’re still awake.  And I’m thinking, what the hell?  

I get up and pee to break the monotony.  I am quiet and careful, reluctant to jostle my husband or bounce the bed.  I know where the squeaky floorboards are and avoid them, drawing on years of experience with fretful babies and a father who worked midnights.  I don’t use any lights, even in the bathroom.  I climb back into bed with the stealth of a ninja. 

Having taken care of that, I snuggle back down.  I think, any time now I’ll fall fast asleep.  I close my eyes and try to count sheep but end up mentally composing a story about them instead. 

I hear my son come in at midnight.  He doesn’t wake me up because I’m not asleep.  He knows after years of sneaking in how to hold the bells on the door so they don’t make a noise when he opens it.  He too is familiar with the floorboards and is able to avoid the squeaky ones.  He pees and goes to bed.   

Now my husbandgets up to pee.  He is not silent and careful like I am.  He was a bachelor for 45 years and never had to be quiet for a sleeping wife or child.  Everyone knows he’s up because he uses every light he can on the endless ten foot trip to the bathroom.  He has owned the home longer than my children have drawn breath and yet doesn’t know the path to take on the wooden boards to avoid making excess noise. 

He stomps back to our room and swings himself back into bed like an orangutan, then proceeds to thrash around on the bed trying to get comfortable.  Good God, I think.  He moves more than a kid in a bouncy house. 

Unbelievable.  I wait until he is settled and I blink several times in a row, loudly, in retaliation. 

Shortly after he gets back to bed, my daughter is up.  She has inherited her mother’s ability to walk catlike in a sleeping household.  She also has inherited her mother’s sneakiness and I know she’s going outside to have a cigarette.  She is fooling no one.    She too knows to hold the bells on the door as she comes back in and creeps back to her room, stopping in the bathroom, also to pee. 

Ok, I think.  Now that we’ve all ensured there would be no bedwetting, we’ll all get to sleep. 

Husband whispers to me.  “Are you awake?”
 
I whisper back. “Yes, what’s the deal with this?  I’m so tired and I just can’t fall asleep!  Is there some giant geometry test I didn’t study for?  A project I didn’t turn in?  Because the only time I can’t sleep is when I’m fretting.  And for the life of me, I don’t have anything to really fret about.”
Husband whispers again. “I can’t sleep either!  And I think Annie is smoking!”
No shit, Sherlock, I think.  Only for like six months now.  Out loud, I say, “Gosh, I hope not.”  And then I think, why are we whispering, anyway?  We’re all awake.
During the course of the sleepless night from hell, husband ends up sleeping in the living room on his chair.  I must be experiencing some sort of menopausal symptoms, as I am either freezing or too hot, and eventually make my own way out to the living room as well where I lay wide eyed on the couch for two hours, with a floor fan three inches from my face.
4:41 a.m.  I haven’t slept at all.  I briefly drift off and dream I’m in a wind tunnel.
4:42 a.m.  Husband turns on a new age music channel on cable.  It reminds me of the nightmare that was his deviated septum surgical recovery and I fight the urge to throw up.
5:00 a.m.  We should probably just stay up.  However, I don’t come from a family of quitters.  I get up and stumble down the hallway to the much more comfortable bed and that’s all I remember, because I sink into the most blissful sleep anyone has ever experienced. 
For about one hour.  It’s not enough.  I’m so tired and frustrated I want to punch someone.  However, it is at this time I smell fresh coffee. 
One thing my husband manages to do quite well is the coffee.  And I firmly believe that today, it’s probably saving his life.

 

My husband is one of the most wonderful people you’ll ever meet, truly.  Everyone loves him.  He’s friendly.  He’s handsome.  He’s loyal.  He’s thoughtful.  He’s a great husband, a great son, a great (read:  patient) father and now, a grandfather.  

He also is a name-maker-upper for us at home.  For instance, if I’m ironing a shirt, he’ll find me down in the basement.  “Hi, Iron-y!”  If I’m cleaning the bathroom, he stands behind me, “Hi, cleany!”  (All the time.  He does this all the time.)  If I get home from shopping, “Hey, shoppy!”  Cooking:  “Hey, cooky!”  I think you see the pattern. 

While silly and goofy, those names aren’t harmful in any way.  They don’t hurt my feelings.  Silly and goofy were two of my “husband” requirements, as a matter of fact.  He has those two qualities in spades, people.  In spades.    He just comes up with something on the fly.   

He’s really creative like that. 

The birth of “the list” list was created several years ago out of necessity.  We were newlyweds, and ever mindful of developing FWS (fat wife syndrome) I was standing in the kitchen having a low carb snack after work while I waited for the coffee to get done.  He came in the door from work, big, happy smile on his face, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Hi, porky!”  

No.  I am not kidding.

credit:  akarakingdoms
This isn’t me but it sure is cute.
I was eating low carbpork rinds, not twinkies.  And he saw me eating pork rinds, and in typical creative fashion, said that unfortunate word.  In quiet protest, I did not make dinner that night, and in addition (just in case he didn’t get the hint) maintained a stone cold, icy silence for the rest of the evening, which is my preferred method of communication when I am upset.  (Who’s with me?)   

The list” was born.  There have been remarkably few additions here and there, because ol’ what’s his name has learned his lesson.
 

Or has he? 

This morning I was getting ready for work, hurrying as usual, running around our bedroom slapping on deodorant and finding my shoes.  I grabbed my body spray (what I call smellgood) from Victoria’s Secret and was spritzing it on.  I always try to arch my back and shake my hair as I do this, like the VS models do, but even the dog doesn’t take me seriously.  My husband wandered in the bedroom to grab his gym bag, saw me spraying, and says cheerfully, “Hi, smelly!”   

He realized right away what he had said and looked like a rabbit with his back foot caught in a trap, trying to get away.  Fortunately, my steely gaze pinned him to the spot. 

LIST.” 

It must be time for a refresher course.

 

 

 

 

When I got home from work last night, I made some coffee.  My darling husband came home about the same time.  The following is a true and accurate representation of the conversation we had while I made coffee and talked to him.

Me:  How was your day?

Joe:  It was good, how about yours?

Me:  Busy.

(Small break here for a welcome-home kiss.)

Joe:  I had an interesting start to the morning, though.

Me:  Why?

Joe:  Well, I went downstairs to go to the bathroom but someone forgot to flush the toilet.

(I’m safe, I think to myself.  It wasn’t me.  I’m not naming names but I have a pretty good idea who it was.)



Could we clear the room?  Not you, Frau.  Not you, Scott.  Not you, henchman arbitrarily turning knobs. 

 Me:  That’s just gross.  Was it Number One or Number Two?

Joe:  Whichever one poop is.

He wasn’t even trying to make me laugh, but somehow watching the absolute outrage on his face was enough to make me laugh pretty much all night long.

This is OUR new baby.  I guess we’re not too old to give birth.

My sister and I recently finished, proofread, edited, revised, polished, (and every other word you can think of) our manuscript Baylyn, Bewitched, a whimsical story about a quirky witch with a big secret.  We had a lot of fun writing it. 

Well, that’s not exactly true.  It’s hard work.  It’s blood, sweat, and tears.  It’s late nights after your husband has gone to bed.  It’s saying, “I can’t go, I’m working” and not feeling bad that others might say, “writing?  that’s not working.”   It’s early mornings and lunch hours in coffee shops.  It’s taking a notebook and pen every single place you go, just in case you have a wonderful idea for your masterpiece…it’s there, so you can jot it down.  It’s Saturdays and Sunday’s chores being done early so that you can sit down and write in the evening.  It’s staying accountable.  It’s hard.

Like I said, we had a lot of fun writing it.  And despite all that “fun”, we’re already knee deep in the writing of the next book in the series: Cat, Charmed.  That one should be out by the end of the summer.

For now, you can find our book at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords.

Happy reading!

Why is it that time seems to go so fast? 

I find there are just not enough hours in the day to get everything I need to get done…done.

Sometimes when I am planning to sit down and write after work or on the weekend, I notice the bathroom needs to be cleaned.  A co-worker mentions a clothing drive at Hilander.  Our black lab is shedding the equivalent of one dog per day; I see black tufts of it floating into the corner.

While I do like to “keep house”, it is not my passion.

Writing is my passion.

Finding quality time to write is hard.  That’s what I say.

I believe everyone would agree with me when I also say that if I were to have an entire Sunday alone to write, I wouldn’t. 

I’m being honest.

I would clean the bathroom.  Sort the clothes.  Vacuum.  Talk on the phone.

When only an hour or two is left until dinner, and my house is satisfactorily clean, I suddenly find the “zone”, where everything I put on paper is golden

Time flies during those moments until I realize I can hear everyone’s stomach growling, including mine, and off I go to the kitchen to make dinner.

I am upset with myself because I had the entire day to write and I only used a portion of it.  No one really cares if the bathroom goes one more day or if they have to reuse their last bath towel.  It’s just my excuse. 

Why is that?  Do other writers do that?  Why am I compelled to, say, clean the microwave when I get a big chunk of time to write?

I tell myself sometimes, I’m brainstorming.  I’m developing my characters.  I’m plotting out the next great American novel.  I’m not, though. 

I am procrastinating.  I’m being lazy. 

I’m afraid.
I’m futzing away my time, only to get aggravated later when I have to rejoin the real world and put the computer away.  I think, bitterly, I never get time to write.
The honest truth is, I have plenty of time to write.  Yes, I work full time.  Yes, I have a family, a house to clean, laundry to do, a husband whose hand I love to hold.
I also have best sellers floating around in my brain.  Great characters that are just clamoring for attention; funny characters jockeying for the same thing.  Plot lines that would delight, amaze, and thrill you.  Amazing screenplays that would have theater lines out the door, should they ever come to light.

Don’t I owe it to myself to let that creativity come out? 

It doesn’t matter whether or not anyone likes it.  I write for me; I write to please myself.

do have time to write.  I just need to be disciplined enough to take it.

I need to face my fear of failing.  I also need to face my fear of success.

I think I need to quit standing in my own way.

Poopwa Foley.
I imagine that some of you have wondered, where in the hell did that nickname come from?  And if you didn’t wonder, you should have.
Listen up.  “Poopwa” is derived from the word “poopwahhhrg”, which is Irish for “cooking class”, and as we all know, “Foley” is derived from the word “der foler”, which is German for “dog paws.”
Just kidding.  My DAD made it up.  Isn’t it great?  (phony smile)
My father, Mr-I-think-I’m-So-Funny, has been calling me Poopwa Foley since I was a tiny little girl.  That, and “Monk”, but Poopwa was the one that really stuck to me like, well, you know, poopwa.
Growing up, I was mortified and red-faced if he ever called me that in front of people.  The more embarrassed I got, the harder he wheezed with laughter
Flash forward a few decades.  I have now actually developed a sense of humor (and a thicker skin, to be sure) and find those nonsense words hysterical instead of embarrassing.  
However, using this IN PUBLIC as a writer’s name, if you will, was a leap of faith for me.  I kind of grew into it over the years and now, claim it.
Who else would want this name?  Who else would stand with pride as the name Poopwa Foley was called?  Who has the steel cajones?
A writer calling herself Poopwa Foley, that’s who.
There can be only Poopwa Foley…and it’s me.
Thanks, Dad!

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  • Mary Fran Says: Thank you for contributing to Sweeps Week! We make a great team. Maybe we'll collaborate in our next lives? SISTERS! lol :)
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