Now Landing, Gratitude

I heaved the shopping cart around the market last night for over an hour. By the end of that hour, I gave serious thought to texting my husband and telling him to come help me tow the load to the checkout. I was exhausted. With two cases of water weighing down my painfully full carriage of groceries, I had lost my momentum and was now leaning into the load which was creeping towards checkout at a rate of 1LSPH (Linoleum Square Per Hour).  This is shopping for a family of 6 and 1 dog.  I felt like a Toyota pulling the space shuttle.  

I docked the space shuttle at lane 4. The nice young man bagging my order asked me three times if plastic was ok, and three times I said, “yes.” The nice young man asked me three times if I found everything I was looking for tonight. “Yes,” I replied three times as if my bulging cart wasn’t indication enough that I had found all that I hoped for and more. He continued bagging at a rate of 1BPH (bag per hour) while I multi-tasked between watching the register screen for accurate pricing and intermittently cherry-picking the delicate items being carelessly tossed down the conveyor by my cashier (serving me since 1983). Yes, I’m that lady.  

The nice young man was so far behind on bagging that my items were crunching, crushing and colliding into one another as they backed up into a mountainous, heart-breaking  pile. Finally, the cashier had to stop the belt and help him bag. I helped him bag.  I gave him the requisite stink-eye as I reached into the bottom of the mound for a bag of chips which was now certainly a bag of birdseed.

I resisted a second urge to text my husband. Help me.

When the nice, egg-breaking, chip-crushing, card-smashing  young man didn’t offer to help me out to the car, I tearfully dragged my cart through the black, crushed snow in the dark parking lot.  Bumping, skipping, sinking, and trudging through slush, the cart’s wheels became wedged with chunks of ice and I had to carry the cart on my back the rest of the way to the car. One of the bags broke under the weight of three bottles of sparkling cider and 9 cans of canned chicken.  Chicken bounced off my bumper and plunged with a splash into the melted slush between my freezing feet. Sparkling cider rolled to a stop against the tire of the parked car beside me.

I was instantly relieved the young man hadn’t helped me to the car or I might be shoving his body into my trunk along with 9 cans of dirty, dented chicken. Parked in my garage at home, I teared up at the tasks ahead of unloading and sorting my haul. Luckily, the husband could see it on my face that I had to sacrifice a courtesy clerk just to make it home with my eggs in-tact. He helped me unload and put away my freezer goods in the garage. Never mind that in the house, I had about two weeks of crusty Thanksgiving  left-over’s, uncovered, wilting fruit, and spoiled eggnog to dispose of before any of my new items would fit in the fridge. Every year I excitedly buy eggnog like it’s some kind of interior fridge Christmas décor and every year it sits front and center, untouched on the top shelf.

*toss*

By the end of my herculean grocery effort, I had convinced myself that I probably have some kind of blood disorder which is rendering me this fatigued.  “I’m just so tired. I feel like I’m tired all the time. I can barely lift my arms.” I whined in my head.  I suppose it has nothing to do with hauling the space shuttle around King Soopers for over an hour.

 Alas, I know I don’t have a strength-sucking disorder.  I’m just a busy, tired mommy.  I was tempted to reach for a crushed bag of birdseed chips and collapse on the couch with marathon episodes of Amish Mafia. Instead, I kissed the husband and surrendered to the day’s demands. I crawled into my freshly washed, freshly made, deeply warm and widely comfortable bed.  I was thankful for my bed. I was thankful for the sound of football on TV in the living room below. 

 As I fell asleep safe and sound, I was even thankful for a space shuttle full of groceries for my family.

Women Who (Still) Do Too Much

     It's not usually like this. It's just been a hard week, a lot going on. I've been so busy. The excuses pile up like so much laundry on the floor.
     Before bed last night, I rummaged through an ecclectic assortment of laundry, hair product, a spent coffee cup and an empty Kleenex box on my bathroom counter top to find my toothpaste, which had been squeezed to the end of its useful life because I haven't had time to go to the Market. After I faux-brushed my teeth, I hop-scotched across still more laundry, a phone charger, and ironically, a stack of Market ads from Sunday which now had collected a silt of dust. My eyes were puffy, new wrinkles had etched their way across my face and my thinning hair looked unbearably thinner.For extra self-loathing, I squeezed my fat roll. Ugh. 

      I hopped into bed and knocked over two empty water bottles on the nightstand while frantically looking for my insomnia meds. Unable to identify what pills I had accidentally co-mingled in a nameless pile on the nightstand, I reached for three random pills of various sizes, cut one in half (to reduce the risk of overdose, of course) and hoped sleep would find me. It didn't.
In the morning, I navigated my way backwards through the same impossible gauntlet of my room, all the way  down to my *still* empty toothpaste.

     Eager to escape the melee of my bedroom, I dressed in the same sexy yoga pants, tired and torn t-shirt, and very fashion-forward Powell Middle School hoodie I have been wearing for the last four consecutive days (coincidentally,  the same day I ran out of toothpaste). My husband hasn't complained yet, so I chipped away at something crusty on my pants, tightened my drawstrings and began my day. Even though I left chaos in my wake, I walked into the rest of the house with a sense of satisfaction and peace because I knew everything else in my house was perfect. Sort of.

     The dishes sat sparkling in the enclave of their sanitary dishwasher. The laundry was clean and tightly folded in neat stacks by size, color and alphabetically by brand. (ok, no.) Perfectly arranged, the ornaments on the Christmas tree spun and glittered in the glow of the porch light which was being snuffed out by the rising sun. The tables were clear and clean, the napkins perfectly angled on freshly-pressed linen placemats (again, no).
     The point is, my house is in perfect order. I know where every backpack, pen, movie blanket, remote control are. I can tell you without looking where to find your favorite coffee mug, the book you were reading for homework last night and how many chewy fruit snacks are left in the third drawer of the storage pantry. Everyone is well-provided for, maintained and in good working order. Not a worry, not a care.I take care of the cares.  Every need, every demand, every clean pair of jeans placed neatly at the foot of your crisply made bed.
     My mom used to float a book around my childhood home titled, Women Who Do Too Much and I used to think to myself, "Why would anyone in their right mind do that?" And now I know. I even know why someone wrote a book about it. Because we are women, that's why. Hear us pack lunches, volunteer at school, buy, sell, mop floors, run errands, run to the mailbox, walk the dog (and go to the gym, wrap gifts, write checks, refill toilet paper and wipe out the sink while we're at it).
     As a result of my doing-too-much-edness my bedroom is a disaster. I'm a disaster. I'm a woman who Does Too Much. I'm officially my mother.
*lets head fall back painfully with exaggerated sigh* Well, that's not so bad. At least I recognize that I'm doing too much. The problem is that I recognize it, and then I do more.

     I sat bedside in the pediatricians office this morning while my son had his cast removed. He reclined on the crinkling paper, and moaned that his stomach was hurting. "It started this morning," he said when I asked when he began feeling that way. He should stay home today. I will have to call school, I will have to cancel my class with Deb. I wonder if the Dr will check his stomach if I ask. After all, we are only on the docket for a cast removal not a check-up. They may charge me. How much do I have in the checking? I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten yet, have I? No...
     "The Doctor is running late, he should be here in about 15 minutes. I apologize." Said Nurse Crazy-Scrubs. I closed the door behind her and flipped off the obnoxiously bright florescent lights.
The early morning sun crept in through the blinds, casting an easy, soothing, dark blue glow in the west-facing room.  I put my head on the edge of the foam-filled table and listened to my son breathe. Slowly. Quietly. The generator outside stroked the office walls with a hypnotic vibration. Forgetting about school, my appointment, the office bill, I listened to the quiet. I sat still. I closed my eyes. I checked-in with myself, reminding me that I'm ok and it's ok to just sit still. It's ok. I felt my body melt like hot lead into the plastic chair. I visualized warm, yellow lights swirling through my body, top to bottom.
     I rested. Hard.
     It was the first time in 13 years I was blissfully relieved to be waiting in a doctor's office and I welcomed his tardiness. I wished he would never come. I wished they would forget that we were even in there. Welcoming a few stolen moments of ridiculously precious solitude, I didn't open my eyes until the rushing Doctor flung back the door, stared questionably into the darkness and flipped the lights awake. "Good morning, so sorry to keep you waiting." He smiled, and held out his hand to shake as if he hasn't seen me at least once a quarter for the last thirteen years. By now, I think we should hug. Instead, I shook his hand, took renewed breath, smiled and told him, "It's ok."
   
 

Eat Your Heart Out

With strength that could pull a Monster Truck out of a sand dune, I readied to peel apart the inner pouch of the cereal box. Apparently bound by some futuristic adhesive resistant to my iron grip, I pulled at the fused seams harder. Bearing down, grunting, squatting, I wrestled the bag. I gnawed with my teeth, trying to penetrate the weakest area of the bag that I had only been able to stretch.  

With a final act of Herculean valor, I hoisted my foot up on the counter to brace myself for what was sure to be the greatest feat of any breakfast making mother ever. 

With my elbows pointed to the sky, my knuckles turned white under the stress of the mighty choke-hold I had on the bag.

I roared with determination until a herald of angels erupted into a resounding rendition of Joyful, Joyful! as I finally ripped open the bag. In half.

In an act of celebration (or violence, I’m not sure which) I was sucked into a breakfast matrix and showered by cereal confetti as it was explosively ejected from the box. 

Thousands, millions of store-brand Whole Grain Oats littered my hair, the counter, and overflowed the creases of my bathrobe.  Cereal crunched under my feet as I crossed the room to collect the dustpan and broom.

After cussing out Jesus and mankind, I tried to shake off the hundreds of statically charged O’s clinging to my wool socks. Cereal continued to rain down from the sky for forty days and forty nights.  When the assault finally stopped, I swept the length of my whole arm across the countertop, knocking all the cereal to the floor.  Upon hearing the tick of cereal hitting the floor, the dog dutifully came running to help clean up. Generic Cheerio’s stuck to his wet nose as he sucked up my failure.  I picked wayward O’s from behind the toaster, the dish soap, the potted plant by the window, the couch, the neighbor’s driveway.  After I shooed away all the looters and restored order to the kitchen, I reached for my coffee, which of course had Cheerio’s floating in it.  I felt defeated and weak.

A similar chaotic outburst erupted last Friday in my Writer’s Circle. Instead of a shower of Whole Grain Oats, there was an explosion of the emotional variety as I sat before a panel of my writing peers and ripped my own creative self in half.  Through the journey of writing my book, I feel like I am met around every corner with impossibility. Doubt. Frustration. Procrastination. I launched into a shameless testimony about failing, fear, the haunting of the past. I ruminated at length about how hard it is to keep working on my book. I emoted about how hard it is to face my fears and visit my past.  How hard it is to open up and pour it all out.  I felt defeated and weak.

“Maybe I just need to quit? Maybe this is just too much for me. Maybe I’m not as strong as I thought I was.” I admitted.

 My writing coach’s face turned ghostly white, and I could tell that she was thinking about launching herself through the second story library window.  But she didn’t jump. She and the other writers listened to me quietly until I ran out of pitiful steam.

“I can’t do it.” Just short of unstoppable crying, I summarized my plight with an act of surrender. I wanted to quit.

“No, no, no! You can do this, look how far you’ve come. It’s hard, it is, but you can finish it.” They swept up my exposure like it was a thousand fallen Cheerios; rushing to my aid with support and encouragement so I didn’t have to get out the broom and do it myself.  Days later with a refreshed spirit, I went back to work on the book. It's incredibly hard. That hasn't changed. But, I know that I’m not going to get everything right and sometimes pieces will fall on the floor.  I may spend more time cleaning up than successfully making anything and that doesn't mean I should give up on fighting for what’s inside. It's good for me. It might even be the most important thing I do all day.   

Today, I easily opened a new box of cereal, poured a hearty bowl, and finished the whole thing.

Best Friends Forever! Kind Of.

It's a strange flux I find myself in right now. I can feel the stage being set for some sort of change or shift in the dynamic of my friendships. Reunions, new friendships, friendships headed for time-outs. My kids seem to be in the same state of flux:  battling with greed, jealousy, loneliness, and an over-saturation of texts, tweets and Facetime. To name a few. Who's been added? Friended? Favorited? Liked, winked, LOL'd at? Or worse, Deleted.

 Oh Social Media, what a tangled world-wide-web you weave. 

Two of my favorite friends have moved away in as many months. Life goes on. Marriages, do-overs, jobs. Sometimes to live the dream you gotta chase the dream. I get it. But still. I have a deficit of cool friends anymore, and I can't afford for them to just be moving away; especially at the same time. I find that as I get older, my friendships become more important to me. They mean more, they are deeper. I find that they are moving away from me. 

 "Is there something on your mind you want to talk about?" I asked my son as I tucked his covers snugly around him at bedtime.

 "Yeah..." He closed his eyes softly, and although I'm sure it wasn't meant for me to see, a tiny tear popped out. 

"What's wrong little sweet?"

"Well, me and Will are fighting." A second tear chased the first and I wiped them both away with my thumb and the corner of the sheet. 

"That's sad, what are you fighting about?"

 He emoted at length about the injustice of it all. The unfairness, the disregard, the neglect of common courtesy. 

"It's football, it's playing fair. It's talking to other friends or kids who don't like me, it's being ignored like I'm not even there. It's everything." 

Ah, yes. The everything. 

I coached him with flawless advice about how to approach Will, how to confront him with kindness and an open mind and heart. I advised him on being a good friend, even when its hard and when it hurts. 

"Give Will the opportunity to do better. Talk to him. A good friend will give you a chance to correct and adjust. Let him know what the perception of him is when he cheats. If he responds with poor choices and decisions and isn't a respectable person, we will go from there. Ok?"

He nodded, jostling another tear out of its home. There was no mucous, and the corner of the sheet wasn't too damp so I figured I had done an acceptable job of neutralizing the situation. At least for the next 8 hours of night-night. 

Today I made contact with a friend I've been out of touch with for about twenty years. I hate to admit that I am old enough to have a friend from twenty years ago--but it is what it is.  She sounded the same, but everything has changed. Marriages, divorces, kids, moves. Wins, losses. So much has happened over those twenty years, yet in the span of a 45 minute phone call, it was as if nothing had changed. Time stood still for us. A flood of memories came back to me the rest of the day. Smiles crept across my face, sighs. Giggles. Stories I told my husband about my journey with my friend all ended in, "I guess you had to be there."

 James Taylor said it best when he sang, "The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time..." Amen. My friends have moved unrealistic distances away to meet for coffee, Pho, shopping. But I enjoyed the time that our paths crossed and we walked together. My hope is that Will and Jack have one of those magical friendships that can make time stand still. I hope that by November, they won't even remember the fight they had in October.  And when they laugh and tell the stories twenty years later, they will all end with,  "Guess you had to be there."

Mother's Rap

She spread the slats apart and squinted through the narrow opening. The north facing window was hazy, opaque with sun glare, rain spots and cobwebs.
"What are you looking at?" I asked as I forged for last night's leftovers in the fridge. Without breaking her concentration, mom waved behind her, "Hand me the phone. Fast."
I pinned a piece of cold fried chicken between my teeth, tucked a two-liter bottle of Orange Drink under my arm and handed her the cordless phone.
"I can't believe you still have an answering machine. Seriously, mom." Twenty years of dust was caked into the seams of the antiquated electronic. The recorded greeting was at least that old. "Ssh!" Mom urgently blasted me to keep my voice down. I defiantly asked with my 'inside voice', "what are you doing, anyway?"
"I have to call 911."
My cold fried chicken shed some of it's congealed coat and the camouflaged crumbs dropped to the speckled vinyl floor below. I didn't have to look to know that she was still at the window. Watching. Her paranoia didn't impress me anymore.
"Why do you have to call 911?" More crumbs fell out.
"Because! There's some..." She paused to find the most dramatic, least offensive, urgent descriptive she could come up with."...there's gangster raps outside!"
My laughter heaved a bolus of fried chicken into my esophagus, launching me into a fit of gagging and choking. "What the stink is a 'gangster rap?'" Now she had my attention and I looked up. Mom was in the same crouching tiger pose at the window, motionless, spying the 'gangster raps'. She lowered her voice to a whisper, "Thugs, gang kids!" She positioned her thumb on the '9', ready to dial.
I poured flat Orange Drink into a coffee mug. "What are the gangster raps doing?" She stared harder through the tiny opening in the wooden blinds. "They are standing around that car across the street."
 "So, they aren't actually doing anything?" I confirmed her observations but she didn't answer. "Mom. It's not   911 Prevent an Emergency. Put the phone down." She continued her surveillance, waiting for the gangster raps to do something-anything-litigious.
"What's mom looking at?" Lis swiped the last piece of chicken from my paper towel plate. "She's watching some gangster raps, and waiting for the shit to go down." Mom raised her voice above a whisper, "Don't swear in my house!" Lis stood beside her and looked over mom's shoulder into the street. "Oh, I graduated with those guys. One of those kids was in Student Council I think, and that other kid was in my Honors class."
Mom stepped back and put the phone on the counter beside the sink. "I want you girls to clean up all those crumbs you dropped and throw away your trash. I mean it." She was heading upstairs when the phone rang. "Will one of you brats get that?" Mom hollered from the landing where she had resumed her neighborhood watch crusade at the upstairs window.
"Maybe we should keep the line open, mom, just in case? The machine will get it."

Cardioship

Relationships are hard. Romantic relationships, friend and family relationships. Neighbor and work relationships. They all take a toll on the heart.
Relationships can make you feel good about yourself and horrible about yourself. Love, doubt and dislike yourself. Never mind how they can make you feel about the other person in the relationship.
Oy.
Some relationships are worth the never ending investment of mental and emotional sweat. Some are better left severed and walked away from.
But no matter where they end up, all relationships have to go through the heart before they go anywhere else; making the heart a sort of filter, a sciv to let the love through and keep the crap out.
Like any machine, hearts are fallible. They aren't perfect. Sometimes they fail. Sometimes they even break. And that is the part that makes us human.
That is what makes our heads kick in and make up the difference when the heart falls short.
And then it's anybody's game because that's where all the crap goes that the heart once filtered out.
That's when we draw on past experience to help us make choices. Decisions. Mistakes.
That is when we have to count on the other person's heart to do what's right and hope that their heart isn't broken too.

Mutiny on the Body

There are so many things that are much easier said than done. Perhaps the one most difficult for me to do is, "Listen to your body."
Listen. To your body.
Most days, my body whines, cries, nags and even screams at me. And I ignore it like a child having a tantrum in the Market.
Shut up, body. I don't have time for you. Your needs are embarrassing me.

I know you are hungry, you don't have to keep telling me. I know you are tired. I know you want to sit down. But we must. Keep. Going. Things to do, people to see. Problems to solve.

 Worlds to conquer.

  I worked out today. When I came home, I walked the dog a mile and a half in 96 degree heat. I took a shower, and then in a moment of mutiny, my body did something it has never done before: it hit me.
I told my body that after the shower, it was time to vacuum, do the morning dishes. Mop, scrub, fold. Write, drive. Show up. And my body knocked my ass out.
 "I give you everything you ask for. Energy. Strength. We are stopping," my body said. And I listened.
 I laid down in bed, the fan whirring overhead. The room was dark and cool, the music turned up far too loud for a nap. And yet I fell hard, hard asleep.
After thirty minutes, I woke up in a panic, certain I had missed the whole afternoon. What do you know, the day was still there, the sun was still in the sky.  All the chores were still there. All my problems, all my worries, all the demands were still there. Even the World, was still there. Nothing died, nothing came to a screeching halt. Anarchy, apocalypse, famine, locust? Nope.  No one fell apart as a result of me listening to my body.
Not even me.

Blessings on the Greener Side

On a recent Facebook status update, I went on for far too many lines complaining about what a long and tiring day I had ahead of myself. Errands, kids,working out, driving, cooking, cleaning, walking the dog. Home repairs, grocery shopping and of course dinner, homework and the night shift.

I'm busy, we all get it.

These are things I do every day, but on that day it just felt like I was touching everything twice. With every click of my seat belt, every time I touched the gear shift, every time the dog jumped on me, a neighbor knocked, I felt like energy and motivation were being sucked out of me. And then it was time to pick someone up at school or turn over the laundry.

As a Homemaker, I find that I am in motion about 15 hours a day. My SUV is in motion for half of that.

It's exhausting. It's thankless.

My friend made a comment on my status implying that I was bragging about my to-do's, the Daily's that he dreams of in his single life. The hustle, the bustle. The chaos of married life. What I considered a long list of complaints, he considered bragging. The idea gave me pause.

My single friend can work late, go out late, drink, play, party. Have girl friends, have guy friends. Leave messes, leave the seat up, leave town any time. Text in the middle of the night. Come and go. No kids to baby sit, no dog to board. No bottomless baskets of laundry. Money can be spent on anything the single person desires. Not handed out as allowance, tooth fairy funds, daycare, field trips, Easter basket building, Halloween costumes. No school supplies and immunizations. No bombarding for snacks, pencils for homework (which all need sharpening of course). If he doesn't make it to the market for a while, that's ok. No one is going to be malnourished except him. A diet of peanut butter from the jar and an over ripe banana is a perfectly balanced meal in the single person's food pyramid.

It's a textbook case of "The Grass is Greener" theory.

Being married with children is a lot like enduring a difficult workout. It burns, it hurts. Sometimes, you even want to quit. It gets hard to breathe, it's uncomfortable, painful even. It's challenging, exhausting. It feels like it will never end and at times it can be a lonely place when you feel overwhelmed by the burden. But all of this could easily be said for the life of a single person, too.

It's uncomfortable. It's painful.

I've been single. I've been married. They each come with their own rewards and disappointments, like anything in life. It's hard no matter what side of the fence you are on. But it's your pasture and you were put there for a reason. As difficult as it is sometimes to exist there, once and a while it's a good idea to take off your shoes and walk around barefoot to remember how good it feels to be there. To connect with the roots and know you are growing, right where you belong.

I read my Facebook post again. Was I whining or celebrating? Giving up, or taking it all in? Would I trade my day for someone else's shade of green? Would my friend?

It's not easy. It's not like anyone else's.

It's perfect.

Say Again?

I sincerely wish I could learn to shut up.

But, since I have tried without success for years to shut up, I sincerely believe that I should have been wired with a DELETE, BACKSPACE or REWIND key. At the very least, I should wear a roll of duct tape on my wrist so I can intercept my own mouth from spewing whatever the hell it feels like.

In lieu of having actual hardware at my disposal to over ride my impulses, I must learn to accept what God gave me. Or didn't give me, in this case, self control.

I know there is a timeless adage used the world over; which is fitting for my projectile word vomit. It was something about being 'slow to think and slower to act,' or something like that. Think before you open your soup cooler.

In some cases, something might be worth thinking about for a long time before reacting to it. It might behoove someone like myself who is usually quick to act, to sleep on a matter and even think on it overnight. Overnight? Let's not get carried away.

In real life, I would never do that.

Because try as I may to hold back my initial emotions, I can't. I may tell my mouth that we are going to think rationally, reasonably, let cool heads prevail; but my mouth will almost always resist the effort.  It's the same reason I can't play poker or keep a birthday surprise. I just can't keep it in. I'm as transparent as Scotch tape.

It's a flaw that more often than not has gotten me in trouble, caused me a relationship or two, hurt someone's feelings, gotten me written up at work or ejected me from bars. My quick words have disappointed other people, and ruined opportunities. Letting my emotions come out in the form of words before my brain has had a chance to translate has rendered me embarrassed, regretful and vulnerable.

In my defense, I think this is largely because I instinctively trust my instinct. In 37 years, it has never failed me. My gut and I have an understanding, and my first feeling, my first instinct is usually spot on. And herein lies my conundrum...Because my instinct is not everyone else's instinct. Therefore, what I say, and even how I feel is not always right by worldly standards.

Sigh.

I am not always right. It was hard to put a period at the end of that sentence. I am not always right. Period.

So until the world becomes magically in tune with my ever-correct gut, or until I learn to think before I speak, please pass the tape.

Strange Magic

He was the first adult male I had a crush on. The forbidden, unattainable, unrequited love of my life.

Gorgeous. Rustic. If that's possible.

"Welcome to Natural Science, I'm your instructor, Terry Strange."

 I sat on the edge of the first seat in the front row. I batted my eyelashes, which were fixed on Terry Strange. His expensive, saggy jeans, his wire eyeglasses. Scuffed, heavy (but soft-looking) work boots. Terry Strange was a Lumberjack with champagne taste. Just the way I like 'em.

He rattled a list of expectations, rules, and the semester's agenda. He scribbled his office phone number on the board and I copied it into my notebook, covering the tiny hearts I drew all around it.

Sigh...


I noticed he was not wearing a wedding ring, but then I assumed that even if he was married,  a man like Terry Strange wouldn't wear jewelry except for the compass watch he sported on his left wrist.
He held most of our classes outside, and I loved that. When we went outside, Terry wore a felt hat that cast a beautiful shadow on top of his natural 5 o'clock shadow. So mysterious...

He referred to our notebooks as 'field books' and carried his own pocket sized field book tied with a leather string. He wrote in it with a wooden lacquer pen, the kind that twists open.

Oh Terry, you slay me with your avaunt guard  fashion sense.

Terry drove the white school van to the sight of our first field trip, the Nimbus Fish Hatchery.

The place smelled awful.

Fish eggs, fish packed in row after row of shallow tanks, fish food, fish waste, fish babies. Fish compost.

Somehow, Terry Strange made even the Nimbus Fish Hatchery fascinating and I hardly noticed that I had overexerted my gag reflex. I wondered how Terry would be spending the rest of the day after class. Would he go back to school and grade papers? Go out to lunch? Go home and make a hearty sandwich on seeded bread with dijon and pastrami? I bet he lives in a small mining community, in a big house with a dog. A Bloodhound, or a Lab. No, a Retriever for sure. The one that brought back the Pheasant he has hanging over his fireplace, the one he hunted. I bet Terry has brown leather furniture with brass carpenter tacks and whip stitching.

A petite woman was introduced as our tour guide. She was wearing a tan Fish Hatchery uniform and had her long, straight, brown hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail. Pale and bland, her big eyes were the only remarkable feature of her plain appearance.

She knew more about fish than anyone ought to, especially a woman. I noticed that Terry was smiling as he listened intently to the tour guide. The fish smell was again obvious, awful.

I tuned out the tour guide and the smell of fish and instead hummed our song, Strange Magic in my head.

"I'm 18, I can date anyone I want. I could drop out of Terry's class so he wouldn't have to worry about anyone chastising our love."
I love it when a plan comes together...I looked at Terry, who was standing at the back of our group. His hands were plunged deep into the front pockets of his fleece vest.

The tour ended and Terry instructed the class to return to the van. Everyone went except me. I lagged behind to see if I could finagle some one-on-one time with Terry. Maybe I had a question about the gestation period of Rainbow Trout eggs? Maybe I had a question about the spawning period of Grunion?

Minnows leaped about in my stomach with anticipation until I saw them. 


Terry was hugging the tour guide in front of the Evolution of Fish poster. She rubbed his arm while he talked with his hands, pointed at his compass watch.

They kissed goodbye and as he walked towards the van they agreed, "See you at home."

Making a Scene

I'm writing my Memoir.
Ugh.
It's awful. That is, it's awful to write. It's awful to remember. It's awful to Memoir.
For a long time, I didn't think I should write it. I didn't think I had a story to tell. And, if I did have a story, it is surely a horror story, and, who cares. Everybody has a rough life. Right?
Surely, no one can take away anything from my story, it won't teach anyone anything. It wont evoke feelings, or entice anyone to read it. Who cares, I'm nobody.
I'm nobody, with nothing to say. Nothing extraordinary I have overcome. I'm not a hero. I didn't turn any tragedies into anything amazing. I just came out of it, quietly with no fanfare.

But, as I began to share parts of my story with 'normal' people on the 'outside', once I traveled beyond the comfort zone of commiserating with my brother and sister; I learned that people were actually intrigued by my story.
They wanted to know more.
They wanted to know how I turned out so nicely, in spite of all that trauma.


So, my story began to morph from a tragic reality into a story. I've hired a coach to guide me through the logistics of compiling my story. She is there to help me put it all together; build it. Make sense of it all.
Oh, if anyone could just make sense of it all.
I have pages of material. Pages of things that really happened. I didn't have to create them, I didn't dream them or fictionalize them. This week I sent about forty pages to my coach. I waited anxiously for her feedback, her direction. I waited for her to make sense of it all.

While I plugged away at still more pages, I was overcome with a flood of emotion. I suppose that's going to happen when you dig through the emotional shards of your past. Sooner or later, it will start to sting. Again.
I called my mom.
I don't know why.
I didn't want to upset her. I didn't want to tell her where I had just gone, in my head. I didn't want to tell her what I had just written. She doesn't need to know. She already knows. But, I needed her voice. Thirty years later, I needed her.

"What are you doing today?" she asked.
"I'm just writing. That's all I have on my agenda today. Just writing. And I worked out at the Studio-but now, I'm writing."
I thought I might tell her that the writing is hard for me at times. Sometimes, it breaks my heart to look back at what I just wrote, and not choke down tears. Not have a panic attack. I think she already knew that. She knows that I'm scared when I write these things...

We talked about my sister, my brother and  my kids. We talked about the wildfires, marriage.
 How fitting.
The next day, my coach sent back the responses to my documents. Forty pages of my darkest secrets and most nagging insecurities and fears, critiqued in the margin by a stranger.
"Wow! Very powerful scene." "This is horrible, I am really getting a sense of the narrator's conflict and struggle." "I'm overcome, you have done a great job bringing me in to the narrator's place, I can feel and hear everything, this is great work."

This is a powerful scene. This is great work. This is horrible. I can feel everything...

A powerful scene? I think that's all wonderful feedback. Great critique.
But, there was some shock to seeing someone critique, "My God..." about my story. In a way that expressed; 'I can't believe it. I want to look away. How could anyone go through this?' And it's about my real life.

And then it occurred to me. It is real. It was real. To me. It happened, in my real life. I didn't make this, this isn't work that I creatively fabricated to make an impression, or to move someone to unimaginable emotion. This happened. All I have done by writing it down, is simply document what happened.
Is there talent in that? Is there anything commendable in that? Is documenting the worst things that ever happened to you, praise worthy or vulnerable to a good critique? Is it possible to have a 'voice' about something that once took your voice away?

Seems odd.

Maybe all this emotion is part of the growing pains of writing a memoir about tragedy. About abuse. About growing.

Maybe this is all part of the next scene.

Stage Left

I know a real neat guy. And when I say neat, I mean ripped.

The man on the right is a model, muscle man, Master Personal Trainer, and pretty much any other amazing thing you can think of to say about an Adonis. I mean, Dude rocks it. No matter what 'it' is. The best part is, he isn't even an asshole. He's actually a really nice, friendly, cool guy.

 Not that he hasn't heard the accolades a million times (today), he is very humble about his amazing physique and amazingness. He is a real person, with real feelings and a real life. He works hard every day, all the time; inspiring others and doing good things that both show, and don't show.

Because he is that amazing.

Ripped. Humble. Real. Amazing.

He posted on his Facebook the familiar adage, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?"
Hmph. Easy for Adonis to say. I mean, look at those...everything. I seeeriously doubt he has ever fallen to the temptation of laying on the couch and waking up to dry mouth from all the pistachios or Cool Ranch Doritos he ate while watching 48 Hours Hard Evidence . He epitomizes motivation. He sweats commitment and hard work. The man wakes up and makes a Dedication Smoothie.

I scoffed. I wondered. If I could not fail? What would I do?
And then, I got distracted by something shiny. You read that right, I  failed at thinking about not failing.

But, the question lingered in the back of my mind like those mismatched socks on the couch. I asked myself what is stopping me from doing anything I even remotely think I could do, really? I learned, it isn't my fear of failure that holds me back from achieving. I totally believe that I could do anything I wanted to do. But, I am a farmer of excuses. Planting laziness, harvesting reasons why I "can't" achieve something.

Let's assume that I would like to be a body builder.  How come I'm not trying to be a body builder if that is something I want to do? And, by the way, I'm pretty sure that I could be a body builder for like, a few days.
 But, eventually, that would get hard and I would have to go back to watching Toddlers and Tiara's and Sister Wives. Let's not forget Dance Moms. Oh, and of course 16 and Pregnant. Booyah. That's some messed up shit. But, I digress.

Besides the fact that on the inside, I'm a body builder, on the outside, I lack three things that hold me back: Muscles, motivation and discipline. Money for training, tanning, teeth whitening, hair lightening and a shiny bathing suit and high heels to wear in competitions might help, too.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring to you my resounding excuses. And that's all they are. Excuses. If I wanted the money, I could raise the money. I'm sure Complete Nutrition is dying to sponsor a 37 year old mother of 4 in an amateur body building contest.

The truth is, all of my excuses could easily be called something else: Controllables. My excuses have not been put on me, outside of my control. I choose them. I pick them up, and carry them all day long.  My excuses aren't disabilities, handicaps or accidents. They are not things that 'happened' to me. My excuses are what I go to instead of working hard for the things that truly matter. Because working hard is hard. I'm living like I "can't", but the reality is I "don't".

 I'm able bodied. I'm a whole person living a half life. My excuses only empower me to never achieve. Ewe.

The epiphanies could go on and on, but I have exceeded my quota of realizing wisdom for one day. It really comes down to choices. Choosing to go after it, or not. It comes down to choosing inspiration. Motivation. Discipline. Some folks choose those things and blow them out of the water, like my dear friend on the right. His results are commendable, admirable. Inspirational.

Amazing.

Then there are people who have every reason, legit reasons, understandable reasons, to say that they 'can't'. Yet, they choose to live a whole life despite the adversity life has given them. Those people become Special Olympic Champion Power Lifters. Their choices power their 300 lb squats, 245 lb bench, 315 lb dead lifts.

Inspiration reveals itself in different ways. And I promise you, it isn't in the Season Finale of Sister Wives or at the bottom of a bag of pistachios. Sometimes inspiration takes the shape of Adonis. Sometimes, inspiration strikes a proud pose next to Adonis.

 And that's the kind of inspiration that has the power to change "What would I do..." into "What if I Did?"

A Willing Prisoner

"I'm ready for breakfast!" My son's order for waffles, sausage and mini-pancakes is barked at me before I even get a proper greeting.

"How about, good morning mom? Hi mom? You must have slept so well, you look radiant?"

He rolls his ten year old eyes in unison with a 'whatever' sigh.

"And, I don't like that V8 juice, I'd rather have orange juice."
I let that one go, too, because he just looks so damn cute in his striped pajamas and bedhead.

"Will you please get the syrup out of the pantry?" The martyr side of me kicks instinctively into high gear, with hopes that he will be moved to help, simply because I am just shy of squeezing fresh orange juice for him. I hear him open the pantry with loud body language.

"Oh my gosh! You said you were going to buy the good syrup! Why did you buy the store kind, again!"

And that was it. The catapult that launched my son on an unforgettable guilt trip with yours truly. And I assure you, no one can lay a good guilt trip like Mom.

I didn't even try to stop myself from using the usual cliche's. I even harped on those poor children in China who never had-and probably never will- have syrup. Oh, you are so lucky, you don't even know how lucky you are. When I was your age..." I went on and on stopped before I got to my 'barefoot walks to school in the snow, uphill!' But I did not leave out the fact that I am not his servant.
I inserted a few, "I don't even know why I try", "I work so hard", and even the classic, "Everything I do is for you." And, all I ask in return is for you to dip your perfect pancakes in 1/4 cup of store brand, sugar free, dollar-ninety-nine syrup.

I'm such a bad mom, I don't know how you even find the will to wake up every day.

Oh, that was good. I think I really got through to him with that 'perfect pancake' bit.

I hovered over my son at the table while he ate. I carried on with a tragic monologue that would have made Shakespeare proud. My son tuned me out, and, truth be told, by the time he was done gagging on generic syrup, I had tired of my own voice too.

He was excused, and ordered to his room to get dressed. I steadied myself for some 'but it's Saturday!' push-back, but it never came. Tail between his legs, he went to his room and came back dressed. That 'perfect pancake' thing was more effective than I thought.

I patted myself on the back with dishpan hands.

While I might be trapped by my instinct and legal obligation to feed my son, I am free to feed him store brand syrup and remind him to like it.

Fire and Rain

I took my kids camping.

Alone.

That means, I had to do all the camp-y things by myself. Sans Husband.
I don't know why, but as soon as I know that I will have to do anything like that by myself, I go into some kind of paralytic-amnesia. Suddenly, I don't feel competent to do the same things I have watched a man do for twenty years. Which is ridiculous, because when a man is performing camping tasks, I almost always watch on with the sense that I could do whatever he is doing easier, faster, and a lot less expensively. In high heels. While breast feeding. Blind.

Yet, when I set out to go camping with my two kids, suddenly, I doubted my capability to make fire. To set up camp. To change batteries in the lantern, or set up the grill.  "What if the car breaks down? What if I get a flat tire? What if I hit a deer? What if there's bad guys?"

Eek.

Like any good mom (or woman) I quietly harbored my doubt and replaced it pseudo-confidently with phrases like, "I got this!"

Even though I was driving a new vehicle up the mountain, I still had internal diagnostic monologue. "What's that smell? Is it the car ahead of me or are my brakes on fire? Do you hear that?"  Every once and a while I made a mental note of the odometer reading when passing landmarks so I could tell a dispatcher EXACTLY where I was. Should the need arise. I had nervous poop cramps for like two hours on that drive wondering if we would make it without me having to whore myself for a tow.

We arrived at camp with all our tires and brakes in tact. It started to rain.

No problem, because remember, I got this.

It started to thunder. Lightening. Hail. Locusts. Famine. I unloaded the car, fed the kids, and headed to the pit to try and start the fire I had promised.

Using my body as a human wind shield, I hovered over the damp fire pit.  I stacked wood, lit paper and built tiny pyramids of kindling. I huffed, fanned, poked and prayed prayed for my fire to start. "Please God, thank you for sparing me hitting any deer on the drive up, but I really, really need a fire now." I spent two full lighters with my efforts.

White smoke billowed in my face with no sign of flames. I could hear a puddle boiling and sizzling under my pyramid. I was fighting back doubt and tears. I was wet. Cold. Dizzy from smoke inhalation, I was ready to quit. As I hovered over the pit, my back aching and my knees screaming...a tiny burn crept up the side of the twisted paper and caught fire.


Fire.

The kids watched on, jumping up and down in their hoodies, their wet marshmallows poised and ready to roast. "Yes! Mom! You did it!"

I stood in the rain and savored my first fire as it spat and coughed like a baby being born. As the fire took its first breaths and burned brightly into existence, I realized that I am a Mommy. I can make you warm, feed you and take you camping.
 I've got this.

The Man Umbrella

“It’s a head or something!”


My 8 year old daughter coiled back, drawing her fists up under her chin while assuming a flamingo-like pose on one toe. I looked through the window at the puppy and tried to spy from a safe distance what he was chewing on. I assured myself that it was a rotten apple, fallen from the tree. 


 This is probably the only time in my life I wished for a rotten apple. Please, please, please be a rotten apple…


But, there was firmness in his bite that told me I was dead wrong. 


Closer inspection revealed it was a bird head the dog was eating. 

 “Get it!” she screamed at me. 

Um? No? Disgusting?



The puppy spat the head out at my feet to show me how pretty it was. I stared at the decapitated, walnut-sized noggin of the tiny bird, its feathers licked into a comb-over and its eyeballs eerily missing. 

As a mom, there are a lot of really disgusting things I have subjected my gag reflex to. But  Bird Flu, Malaria, Rabies, worms, Black Death would be the end-all-be-all of gross-me-out. 
 I draw the line at prying a bird head out of my puppy’s mouth as long as there is a brave husband within screaming range to do it for me. 


 I don’t consider myself a Feminist, but, there are certain tasks that I believe are covered under the Man Umbrella. 


Car repairs, fixing big, broken things like garage doors and appliances and anything dead definitely reside in Husband territory. However, in an effort to promote equality, I am happy to pull my weight by addressing items that are more motherly (and menial) in nature.  Scraping dried up toothpaste off the bathroom sink comes to mind.


 Marriage is a give and take. Except for when it’s Honey-do.


If my car breaks down, it’s just understood that the Husband will make a few phone calls, take my car to a Far Away Land where mystical people will do magical things to it (for free) and bring it back in perfect working order. The car goes away broken, it comes back, fixed.  This is a way he can take care of me without taking away my freedom or independence.


 My husband has saved me from lots of disgusting horrors in our time together. With shreds of toilet paper stuck to his calves, jeans rolled up to his knees, he bailed raw sewage out of the basement when the sewer main erupted. I think that if your potential mate is willing to wade through crap to help you, it’s a good sign that they are in it come hell or high sewer water. If he or she is going to comfort you when you puke, rescue you when your car breaks down and do the things that you just don’t have the wherewithal to do for yourself, you can feel confident that you have probably found your soul mate.


The realities of being in a married relationship sometimes reveal themselves in atrocious ways. Maybe it’s a sewer main erupting in your house. Maybe it’s dealing with a dead animal in the back yard. Real life happens in real life. Whatever the crisis may look like after marriage, I firmly believe that as a fair warning, wedding vows should come with an addendum to clarify what you are really signing up for when you promise, “I Do.”
Wedding promises should include a clause, “…will you stay faithful even though your mate has vomit in her hair and her makeup is smeared in streaks down her face? Furthermore, will you flush the toilet, carry her to bed and bring her a pan –your favorite pan- to throw up in again while she cries like a baby in bed? In front of God and these witnesses, do you promise to love her, even when she is seemingly possessed by Menstruation and has a migraine?” 


When getting married, no one ever stops to think about who will be called upon the day the family puppy is caught nibbling on an avian cranium.
Life, marriage, parenting; it’s all about finding the balance and being patient when everything teeters on the fulcrum. 


 Some days you’re the puppy, some day’s you’re the bird.


My husband willingly assumed the role of “Decapitation Extraction Technician”. He asked for a bag, which I fearlessly handed over. Expressionless, and without complaining about the grim task at hand, My Hero disposed of the head. After a while, it occurred to me that where there is a head, somewhere else is the body. I resigned to cross that carcass when I come to it.


For now, I simply paused with gratitude for having a life that is real, and a husband that won’t take flight when the going gets tough. Would I take this day and all the rest, to have and to hold from this day forward?
I do.

In A Fickle

Being fickle isn't easy.

Sometimes it's downright embarrassing. And expensive.

But, it's an expensive, embarrassing cross I'm willing to bear because in addition to being fickle, I'm also a control freak, martyr and homemaker.

 I bear many crosses.

My fickle nature drove me to have the house painted one color, and weeks later paint it again; a different color.  But, my indecision isn't limited to the confines of my 4, twice-painted walls. This costly quirk of mine forces me to wander store after store, again and again, purchasing and returning, buying and trying as I try to build a comfortable nest for my family.

At our housewarming party, a guest pointed out a beautiful armoire in my formal living room. It has it's original 100 year old cream paint finish, lovingly chipped away in all the right places, rickety dovetail drawers, turnlegs and claw feet clutching clear marbles.  It even has a charming midi crest gently sweeping across the top and back of it.

Sigh.

I didn't have to change a thing about it except the hardware, which I updated with vintage-looking apple green crystal knobs to match my green chair. Yes, I put NEW, old-looking knobs on an antique armoire. Heh.

"Thank you. I found that at the Antique Gallery for $100!"

My humble self then pointed out all of my other fabulous finds from the Gallery.
"Gallery (point), Gallery (point). Gallery (crane neck around corner to next room, point)"
My guest was very impressed and intrigued. And, who wouldn't be? I pretty much decorated my whole house with conversation starting, attention grabbing, 'I wish I had that!' exciting Gallery pieces.

"What is this 'Gallery' you speak of?"

*dies*

Because I'm kind of a promoter and (unpaid) whore of The Antique Gallery, and overall good person, I invited my party guest to come with me the next time I go to the Gallery, so I can expose her to the wonderful world of tasteful, eclectic, affordable home furnishing and design.

I haven't been to The Gallery since I found out Dale died.

 Dale worked at the Gallery and is to thank for loading all my large furniture finds into the back of my SUV for the last ten years. Dale always validated, with sincere jealousy, my wonderful finds. "I don't know how you do it! You're an inspiration!"

Thanks, Dale. It's not easy.

Even though I love, love, love The Gallery, it has two huge problems. The first and most awful being, 'No returns or exchanges allowed'. Never mind that the turn off is hand-written, landscape style on an 8x11 sheet of binder paper and stuck to the front door with silver duct tape. I get it.

The sign could easily read, "Check all large bags and fickle behaviors at the front desk because your indecisive ass ain't coming back in here with no dresser that didn't fit." 

There is no point, pick and pray at The Gallery.
There is no hoping it works, thinking it will work, or 'just liking' it.
There is no blind shopping at The Gallery. There is no Fickle. Which completely goes against my savvy cross-bearing, home decorating whims.

As a result, I now have a basement full of 'PERFECT!' items the Gallery won't take back. I have enough to open my own Gallery. By definition, I'm probably teetering on Hoarder territory. But not by design.

And now, I'm committed to taking my neighbor to the Gallery.

I don't need anything else at the Gallery. I'm done. I'm good. But, I CANNOT go in and not buy something.

It's what Dale would have wanted.

But, I also cannot go in and buy something with designs on returning it once I've shed my buyers regret. I'm running out of room in the basement for regret. So, half of me doesn't even want to go.

The other half of me is just dying to see if they have any antique crosses.

Meanwhile, Back on the Branch...

My husband has left town for business. The kids are with their "other" parents, and with no kids or husband under my wing, I'm alone in our nest for the first time overnight.

Being alone in our big house made me think of The Shining. While I didn't face any bloody hallways or resurrected Groundskeepers, I admit it probably is possible to go mad from isolation. I ate crappy food, watched far too much TV and talked to the dog like he was a person. "Do you want to watch another episode of 16 and Pregnant? Or do you want to watch River Monsters? Oh! Biggest Loser is on tonight! We'll have popcorn, ok?"

I left my dishes in the sink, one of the few perks to staying home alone.

At bedtime, there were no lunches to pack, no jammies to find, no teeth to leave out for the Tooth Fairy. No monsters to be shoo'ed, no homework to be signed. There were no prayers to be recited, no blankets to be tucked. I did all the nighttime chores my husband usually does; taking out the trash, making the next day's coffee. My efforts only amplifying the fact that he isn't here. No one is here.

I left more lights on than I would have if my husband had been home. I shook the doors extra firmly. Yep, still locked. 

And while I'd like to say that I had a great time on my own, I was lonely, lazy and afraid.  I realized that a Mommy is just a person when in an empty nest.

Cat Scratch

"The night that cats were wished away was a hard one full of wine, tears, and spectacle."


No more filthy litter box. No more allergies aggravated by hair and dander. The cat would not hog his pillow anymore, would not howl inexplicably at 4 am. His not-so-secret wish had come true.

The Goddamn cat was finally gone.

The night that cats were wished away was a hard one full of wine, tears, and spectacle...


But the wine was bitter, infused with subdued mourning. I shed tears silently in the shower. My spectacle lasted until the wine ran out.

Did you get my telepathic message as I held you in the front seat? You love riding in the car. How odd. You are shedding on me furiously and he is driving with his eyes swollen shut. Am I clutching you too tightly? So tightly, your hair is popping out?

I will drive home with your hair all over me. The only trace left of you.

Yes. I have to give you away so I can keep something, someone else. Someone bigger than you. Someone more important than you. Someone with a voice and opposable thumbs. But, you have been my voice, howling to be heard. Screaming to go out, bound to stay in, for some unseen reason.

 You would not give me away. You would not put me in a box and hand me to a stranger. You would hold me. Pet me, and let me sleep on  your pillow. You would get up at 4 am and open the door, again and again even if every one of those times I only stared at you and I didn't go out.

So trusting, so understanding, so patient.  So this is the thanks you get, old friend. 

It has to be done, doesn't it? I'm giving again. I'm giving away my voice to a stranger, and all I have left is my regret, my sorrow, my apology, my terrible sadness.

"The night that cats were wished away was a hard one full of wine, tears and spectacle."

I Can't Read

Of course I can read. I'm a Writer, for Christ Sake. But what I own in ability, I lack in desire. And, therein lies my conundrum. It's the kind of conundrum that can keep me up at night.

A Writer who doesn't 'like' to read? It's as preposterous as a Navy SEAL with an aversion to water.

I'm a Writer without a library. And, while I do have a few books, most of them are children's books.  The others are Buddhist  philosophy; short one-liners on how to be a good person.

One liners. Those are alright.

But, let's call a spade, a spade. I've never been published. I don't have any publishable prospects. I'm not really a Writer. I'm an aspiring Writer. Longing to join ranks with people who can say that their prose is read by billions of people the world over. I don't care if I ever make any money at writing, I really only want someone to read my writing and tell me it's wonderful. I want someone to read what I have written, and feel like my ideas are spot-on. If only they could articulate their emotions like me, if only they had the talent; the ability. The right words.

I truly, with all my heart love to write. I need to write.

But, this blog post isn't about being a Writer, it's about not being a reader.

I don't like to admit my lazy distaste for reading. All too often, when I tell others that I don't like to read, my confession is met with quizzical, pained, heartbroken stares. It's embarrassing.

"But, aren't you a Writer?"

Yes. There's a difference.

I didn't even read my kids bedtime stories. I made stories up, spinning tales I concocted on the fly. That's what Writer's do. They tell stories. They don't read stories.

Sometimes, I make a half-commitment to myself that I will read a book over the summer. I lie again and again to my culturally starving self and promise that I will discipline myself and READ. But the truth is, if I can't sleep at night, I don't reach for a good book.

I reach for a pen.

RSVP, Bitches

Recently, I had a very eventful pity-party.  I even brought out my best fat pants to wear for the occasion. Taking down all my valuables-trust, optimism, faith, hope and love, I opened the door to some questionable characters.

 I invited into my subconscious the likes of Worry, Dread, Guilt, and Guilt's good buddy, Shame. Trying to add some diversity,  I invited Motivation. The last time I saw Motivation was at the gym, but I didn't make eye contact since Motivation suspected I was flirting with Temptation. I also invited Motivation's besty, Pride. Pride is always a blast at parties but probably opted out due to that awkward run in with Bragging at my last pity-party.

 Since Motivation did not even bother to RSVP, I was not surprised when Motivation and Pride didn't show up at my pity-party. I learned later that they threw their own party at the gym on the same day as my party.

I was, however, surprised that Stress Induced Eating showed up since I did not invite Stress induced Eating, who brought a friend, Insomnia, a terrible bully. It's just gossip, but, these two are big enemies of Motivation and Pride. You do the math.

Since Stress Induced Eating, Insomnia, Worry, Dread and Guilt get along so well, they had a wonderful time. They stayed up until an ungodly hour, eating nachos and surfing the internet on my computer. They called up some of their out of town friends (Regret, Resentment and Negativity) and invited them to crash my pity-party. I heard that Regret, Resentment and Negativity refused to make the long drive, but I'm certain they are responsible for the T.P. in the yard.

Just when I didn't think things couldn't get any more out of control, Disdain showed up. Of course, Disdain doesn't go anywhere without Fear and Loathing. As you can imagine, these three had their way with all the guests at my pity party. Not even Animosity could compete for the spotlight.

The party began to lose steam. Eventually, Stress Induced Eating's ex, Sensibility, showed up, taking all the leftover nachos with them. Insomnia's ride, Guided Meditation, picked up Insomnia, Worry and Dread. They were running out of room in the car, so they decided to leave Relaxation at my house in trade for Guilt and Shame. Animosity hitch hiked, and Disdain went unconscious in the driveway next to an empty keg.

Fear and Loathing called Embarrassment to come get them. Embarrassment only came to a slow roll, and didn't even get out of the car, probably because Embarrassment wasn't initially invited.

Left in the wake of my pity-party were some empty bottles of Apology and a few cans of Hormones.  It could be months before I get the smell of Discomfort out of the carpets.

I won't soon invite any of those fools back to my place.

Wondering if there was any food left in the fridge, I found one slice of cold, Humble Pie, which I ate while I called up Motivation and Pride to see how their party was.

Shark Infested Father

He sat on a red crate which he had turned upside down into a makeshift stool, tinkering on the Harley with a concentrated lean. He called it "restoration", but it was surely tinkering, since his restorations never amounted to anything more than red crates full of Harley parts.

"God gave you that scar to keep you humble, so you wouldn't get too high on yourself."

My Dad's theory mingled with the cranking purr of the socket wrench in his greasy hand.

There was no obvious reason he would mention it, my scar, all these years later... Perhaps restoring the Harley was taking him down the gravelly road of Memory Lane.

I didn't feel high on myself. I felt humbled to a fault as I turned my attention to the reclusive, abnormal flesh hiding under my shirt. A gnarled twist of thick scar tissue, hidden from the light of day and the quizzical stares of rude strangers, my scar was my best kept secret.

"You should make up a bad ass story about how it happened."

Advice on lying seemed apt coming from him. He stuck his fat, gray hands into the guts of his iron horse. More cranking, more grease. More parts tossed into a red crate.

"...like a dog bite, or a shark attack."

A shark attack? The sun beat down on the red, cracked earth in our desert front yard. Miles from a man made lake, not to mention sharks.

I learned how to strategically hide my scar, and the truth, as I concocted outrageous stories about how it happened. Where it came from. At 21, my scar was the result of a violent bar fight; a stabbing. When I was 30, my scar was a badge of heroism after I saved those orphans from a burning school bus.

Tinkered to death, with its gas tank on the garage floor, the Harley was miles from being restored. He couldn't undo what he'd done.

He would never be able to put it all back together.

Straightening himself out,  he smeared his hands across his jeans and stepped over me like a doormat to get in the house, leaving me in the garage to swim with the sharks.

Sweet Jesus

In the margin of my Facebook page, there is a disturbing ad.
 I can deal with the Meth Hotline ad. I can deal with the Math Tutors,  Tough Mudders, and 2-for1 Car Wash ad. I can even deal with the Credit Counseling and Ultra Sound Techs Wanted. It tests my patience to no end to be forced to learn that Racheal Ray lost 43lbs, and no, I'm not at all curious to know how she did it.

Selected by Big Brother (or whatever internet behaviorist is currently watching my habits and trending) the ads are synced with my Facebook status updates by keyword. For example, a status update on Facebook that contains the word 'diarrhea' will yield customized ad results to include things like: Malaria Vaccine, Carpet Cleaning, Home Remedies for Stain Removal and an invitation to 'like' the Pepto Page.

Even at my lowest and most socially isolated, I don't think I would ever friend Pepto. At least not publicly. But, I would never friend Racheal Ray, either. So, I doubt that anyone really knows anything about my lifestyle since none of the ads shoved down my subconscious throat apply to me at all.

 Nevertheless, there is no escaping the very real sense that someone is watching me. Nothing like a little internet provoked paranoia.

After updating my status to include something about the upcoming Easter holiday, the ads in my Facebook margin flipped over like plastic digits on an old Baseball scoreboard.

"Go to Church Faster!" Seems a little bossy and judgmental to me, but it certainly got my attention.

Alright, Facebook. Don't make me go Jesus on your ass.

In my opinion, there are two things in this world that are things you just don't mess with. 1: Jesus and 2: God.  I also have personal feelings about using the phrase 'I hate you'. However, I've lived long enough (and been divorced hard enough) to admit that sometimes there is nothing left but Hate, so I'm willing to concede the Hate clause.

 But I will not budge on Jesus (and/or) God.

After closer review, it was discovered that my aging eyes had skewed the message and the ad actually reads: Go to Church This Easter!

Oh, well in that case.

Wait.

That's still not better. Is this really a commercial for God? On my Facebook page?

As if I can just go to the Market and get some Sweet Tart flavored jelly beans and some plastic eggs filled with Jesus and the Holy Spirit? Perhaps I can ask my husband to pick up some Body of Christ when he stops for milk on the way home, or stuff the kid's baskets with chocolate bunnies and Deliverance from Sin?

I would rather be invited to 'like' the Easter Bunny's Facebook page than admit that we are at a point in our Human existence that we are advertising church, and God on Facebook in the same tiny column as Racheal Ray and Pepto.

I hate that.

About Face

When I came downstairs, I hadn't rounded the corner before I heard him clear his throat. He sat at the dining room table, his otherwise beady eyes appearing abnormally large behind the thick, distorting lenses of his bifocals.

I'd grown to hate that sound, and the predictable manner with which he cleared his throat. I could anticipate it now; the short inhale, followed by a violent cajole of real or imagined phlegm. The self righteous side of me doubted his biological need to heft that throaty cough. No one has to clear their throat that often. Perhaps over the years it simply became a subconscious habit for him. Either way, his phleming habit was a great distraction to me. A rock, dropping in the still waters of my morning. 

He slurped at his coffee with a sound that irritated me perhaps even more than the throat clearing. A slurp is not a sip. 

Never looking up, he cloaked himself with anonymity behind the daily newspaper. Using the sound of the  gray pages crushing under his thoughtless hands as his cue to clear his throat. Again. 

I was invisible as I silently moved about the kitchen like a Breakfast Ninja. I didn't mind. I preferred him not to notice me. The cacophony of sound rising up from behind the newspaper made it impossible not to notice him. 

"Good morning, Asshole." The Ninja serves imaginary conversations with her cereal, which she takes upstairs to her room to enjoy beside still waters. 

New Kid On The Chopping Block

“Are you enjoying Bunko? Would you like to join our Book Club, too?”

Linda all but cried, “shotgun!” as she swiftly slid into the front passenger seat of Paula’s car. As the newest neighbor, I have learned that the front seat of the Bunko carpool is a rite of passage, and is not included in my HOA dues.

I only joined Bunko because I reasoned that it is essentially organized gaming in a stranger’s basement. It seemed a chance to ante up, and escape from reality under the cover of someone else’s wood paneling. As far as I’m concerned, I just joined Fight Club. Since I have consistently lost at Bunko, I was not inspired to sign up for more underground suffering. But, how could I delicately say that to the back of Linda’s head?
“To be honest, I just don’t read very much. So, no thank you.”

“Oh? You don’t enjoy reading?”

Either I just failed at politely declining Book Club, or Paula and Linda are having trouble understanding that no means no. Suddenly, I felt very vulnerable in the backseat.

“No, it’s just that I’m more of a writer. Does the neighborhood have a Writer’s Club?” I huffed with a nervous laugh.

“Writing? What do you write, exactly?”

It seemed a lot of interrogation for a five block drive.

“Well, currently, I’m working on my Memoir.”

“Oh! You have a story to tell!”

I assume everyone has a story to tell. Maybe that was a lot to assume of Paula. After all, she’s driving a Volvo.

She made eye contact with me in her rear view mirror.

“So, what is your intrigue?”

Five blocks isn’t enough time to forge close, personal bonds with your Bunko mates. I didn’t feel comfortable spilling my guts about my messed up childhood. I made an attempt at summarizing twelve years of horror into a short, single sentence.

“It’s a story about growing up with emotional abuse."

It’s five blocks. I’m driving my own car to Fight Club next month.

“And? What about it?”

Buy the book, Paula.

“Surviving it. Overcoming it. Living normally after abuse. Living. Normally.”

“And what was your salvation?”

“My ‘salvation’?”

I’m serious. If this turns spiritual I’m throwing myself into traffic.

“Yes, what brought you to ‘living normally’? What saved you?”

“Nothing saved me. I had to separate from my dad once I was old enough to choose to. I had to choose a healthy emotional life. So, I guess I am my salvation.”

I can’t believe I’m talking about this in the Bunko rideshare.

There was a tension in the car that hovered like a fragrance puck.

No one said anything as the Volvo pulled into my driveway. I thanked Paula for the ride, and Linda for inviting me. They answered with plastic smiles. I can't prove it, but I think Paula started backing out as my seatbelt dangled in the door.

So much for first impressions. I lost at Bunko, I am not joining Book Club and I’m writing about taking control of my own life.

There goes the neighborhood.