Nerdy Natalie

I am Natalie, a nerd, a writing nerd to be exact unless a fella is downloadable to a poetry or writing site, I have no interest. I have been told unless I experience love myself that I will never be a true romantic writer. What twaddle; has the author who writes the latest murder or thriller actually committed murder? I think not, well one would hope not anyway. It would certainly make his book more believable but could it only be sold in the true crime section?

I’m a rhymer at heart, find it fun, but trying to stretch myself lately with free verse and short stories but I haven’t a novel in me, not yet anyways.

“Natalie O’Reilly” my name even rhymes, for flip sake.

I wish my Mother had called me Paige Turner or something, prophetic I would have hoped, and certainly tickles my funny side.

“Yes, Miss.”

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing, Miss.”

“Nothing, I see well if it’s nothing, you won’t mind me looking at it, or sharing it with the class, will you?”

Ms. Jones beckons me up to her desk, detention yet again.

Ms. Jones class is so boring

I cannot believe we are all not snoring

By the end of this class

She will be riding my sorry ass

I will be back in detention

Too many to mention

“Very amusing Natalie, I think they’re getting funnier each week but must we?”

“Must we what?”

Ms. Jones sighs. “Play this game every week; you’re a bright, intelligent, clever girl. Why not just change classes? Pick a subject you have some semblance of interest in and sign up for it.”

“I have reached my quota for changing classes. Mr. Roberts says I’m the most exasperating child and that it seems there is no class suitable for me.”

I roll my eyes in the dramatic way of Mr. Roberts and there is an outburst of giggles behind me. I could have sworn Mrs. Jones had to stifle a giggle herself.

“Natalie, I can have a word with Mr. Roberts and get you signed up for the more gym time instead of Home Economics with me. Would that be agreeable?”

“Ms. Jones, I’m so sorry I’ll sit down and listen to everything you say, I’ll get an A as per usual next week in the written exam, probably a D in the cooking, if I don’t set the kitchen on fire, but please no extra time in gym I deplore it.”

“Okay but no more poetry in my class or you really will be what was it you said? Out on your ass, something like that was it not? Sit down.”

Down I sit

School is the pits

Gym is not for girls with bits

I would rather be popping my zits

The writer

wonders and wanders

wishing for a whisper

from her muse

to pen away her blues

I am stuck betwixt being an introvert and wanting to be a writer. I never really have gotten on with girls or boys I suppose I am a loner at heart. I do not really know what to say to them but I have to - if I am going to successfully follow my dream of being an author – broaden my social circle and experiences. I am too cool for the Science nerds and not cool enough for everyone else. School life and life in general gets in the way of my reading and writing. My English teacher’s imagination is limited. She cannot see my brilliance, goes on and on at me, a real grammar Nazi, I wish she’d get rid of the mustache. I’m not a girly girl but I would definitely do something if I had a black caterpillar lying across my top lip.

“Natalie, how you expect to be the next Dickens or whoever it is you aspire to be when you can’t grasp basic grammar, like why we use apostrophes’ and what there for is beyond me.”

“Yes, Miss. Sorry Miss.”

Gawd she is sooooo annoyyyyying hasn’t she ever heard of proofreaders and editors. They need a job just as much as anyone else does. Some of our most famous well-loved writers could not use correct grammar to save their life. We love them because they have a natural gift, not because their squashed circles put into squares. We are all future little weak minions with no opinions in the making, curtsying and bowing to whatever man has been able to take us weak little females into his domain. Not me, I am going to write myself to freedom. I want to be a hermit, a nice little cottage in the woods, where once a month some nice little inoffensive person, gender not important comes and takes my latest novel, to be proofread of course.

Natalie changed things for her gender

To the rules, they could not bend her

Groundbreaking

Breath-taking

A world famous author

What she knows school never taught her

Homeward I am strolling, a pen tucked behind my ear, notebook and books under my arm minding my own business when a resounding slap on my shoulder nearly sends me sprawling.

“Patrick! I swear I told you to stop that.”

“I’m sorry Natalie” he giggles “but it’s just too easy you walk around in a world of your own. I can’t help myself sometimes I have to break in and bring you back down to earth.”

Patrick is the only person from school I do let break through repeatedly. We have been friends since first grade and every now and then, he will give me a bit of gossip that will start a story in my brain. He is much more sociable than I am and I soak up his information like a sponge, he calls me the ultimate party pooper, I suppose I am. Sometimes I think why I do not just do that myself. Get rid of the intermediary but people are just too tiresome to put up with on a day-to-day basis. Nobody’s company is better than my own some days and cloud nine is the best address.

“Well now that you have broken in, how are you?”

“I’m fine and how are things in Natalie world? Have you anything new to report?”

“Nope usual stuff stuck behind a desk physically but mentally walking in dreamland.”

“Have you any new poems for me to read? Just the funny one’s you know the rest are way above my head, no interest.”

“I’ll bring some in tomorrow, but I don’t want them sung to me in canteen again or you will never, ever get to look at my stuff again.”

“Ah, come on Natalie, how many times, they were hilarious I had to share and wasn’t that the point to get laughs?”

“Yes, but on my terms, not yours, I wrote them, I get to share them.”

“Fine! However, give me one now right off the top of your head, go on, I do not think you should be a writer. You should be a comedienne who writes her own stuff and that dear Natalie is the best career advice you’re ever going to get.”

My friend Patrick is being a dick

An annoying little prick

Nevertheless, my funnies he appreciates

My humor he really rates

Therefore, for now, he can hang around

He keeps my feet on the ground

I wave goodbye to Patrick who is still doing what I can only assume he thinks is a kinda cool gangsta rap move and open my front door not sure what is going to greet me. Oh, my, mother spread-eagled on the floor with some awful racket (she likes to call music) blaring. I think it’s Doctor Hook I’ve heard enough of Sylvia’s Mother to last me a lifetime. It’s yoga time, cool she should be totally zoned out, and she will not even notice me sneak by her.

“Natalieee!”

Blast obviously the end of her session. My mother is the eternal optimist trying to find a bad bone in her body would be the equivalent of opening a tin of beans and attempting to pick which one made you fart. She is the biggest tree-hugging, flower power hippy you are ever going to meet. Her hair, right now, is indescribable - frizz is too general a word and insufficient to describe what is going on with my mother’s hair. I have asked her many times to go get it sorted but she says her hair is a work of art and that works of arts aren’t meant to be lovely all the time they just make a statement. I wish her statement wasn’t I couldn’t give a rats you-know-what. She is an endless source of inspiration and I love her to bits but insanity should be her middle name.

“Come here baby, give your mother some love. How was your day?”

I am enveloped in the biggest hug, all sorts of scents assaulting my nose. I think there is a new hint of after-shave there as well. I have never had a father figure; I have had dozens of father figures. My mom does not believe in monogamy or prison, as she likes to call relationships, of any kind. If someone wants to hang around, she’s happy for them to do so, but if there not and use the dreaded C-word ‘commitment’ she sends them off with a happy wave, no hard feelings here. My dad she says is the only one she could have stuck with. They had a spiritual bonding in the woods blessed by some druid but sadly, he passed away from a heart attack at the age of twenty-eight. She has had many friendships (that is what she likes to call them ever since) and I have to say they have all had lovely qualities but part of them is also away with the fairies. I would not have my life any other way. It is all I know and gives me the freedom to be me.

“Mom you need a shower go get one while I make dinner. What would you like?”

“My Natalie always the sensible one, will do, and surprise me set your creative juices free.”

My mom skips up the stairs and I smile, she is probably the only person, ever, that will consider me the sensible one.

In my mom’s hair is a Daisy

It adds to her image of crazy

She is an eternal child

Her actions always mild

She likes to smell of heather

And will never be caught in leather

I throw together my version of a Waldorf salad too tired for anything more adventurous this evening. My mother is the only person that thinks I have any culinary skills. I certainly did not get any from her. She would live on a sole diet of nuts and crisps if left to her own devices. In fact, if it was not for a few foodies she dated now and again we would not be able to scrape together a meal.

She swans down looking half-decent. We both seem to be in good form and happily eat in silence. I love that we can do that, I have been in Patrick’s where his Mam seems to feel the need to fill every silence straight away not give it a chance to breathe. Patrick says she has been like that since his Dad left forever striving to keep lines of communication open. How sad not to be able to just sit and listen to whatever pops into your relaxed mind. I suppose she is afraid of what might pop up. Patrick loves the freedom of my house. One thing my Mum is good at is giving people time and space to be themselves.

We wash up sharing small talk about each other’s day and then go our separate ways, content that all is okay in our world. I sleep a dreamless sleep.

Silence is a blessing

Appreciated by few

Noise is a lid I am guessing

For thoughts people rue