A Month of Sundays....

Okay, thanks to my buddy, Nick on FB, and my real life gal pal, C, I'm back in the saddle again tonight.  I know it's been a month of Sundays since I've sat down and wrote anything to all of you and for that, I apologize.  I'd love to say that it's because of this and that or the other but mostly it's because I sit down and look at this little blank space and I'm not always sure what to say.

So *deep breath* I'll just say what's on my mind right now this second.

Sunday nights.

Growing up with my grandparents, Sunday nights were for staying in, popping popcorn, heating up frozen pizza, and watching TV.

Over the last 30 years, not much has changed in my life for Sunday nights.

They're still that night for regrouping and packing your lunch.

Taking a bath and shaving your legs.

It's for painting little girl's toenails.

It's for reminding the boy that he should pack up all his baseball stuff NOW and not three hours from now when I'm ready to go to bed and don't feel like washing this or that in the middle of the night thank you very much, sir.

It's for walking around in a pink chenille robe - even though it's hot outside - because your husband has the thermostat set to 'meat locker'.

It's for setting cream cheese out on the counter so you can make that 'really cool apple dip' for the kiddos to have for snacks during the week.

It's for making that mental grocery list in your head because you're gonna stop after work tomorrow night because gas just recently starting costing an arm, a leg, a thigh, and the rights to your first born.

It's for letting the dog out to go do his business and stopping to admire the mums you planted a week ago.  And to smile at the pumpkin vines because they finally quit looking like that pasty kid in the back of the class who sniffs glue and looks at his own boogers.

It's for looking under the couch because someone dropped the remote and the batteries rolled under the couch and you'd love to go to the kitchen drawer and get some more instead of hefting up the couch but someone left the empty battery container and didn't say a word to anyone about it and dear god, we have to watch powerpuff girls right this second (seriously?  Up yours, Buttercup)(sidenote:  Jude hates it when I call her Butterfart) before my head implodes, momma....so you heft up the couch and find nine-thousand-four-hundred and sixty-two hair ties and two fishsticks, nine pencils and two batteries. 

It's for thinking about a friend who had a horrid week and saying a quiet prayer of peace for her.

It's for thinking about how blessed I am.

It's for wondering if I have clean underwear for tomorrow and then remember that I'm the one in charge of the laundry and if I don't then I have no one to blame but me.  Or Kenny.  I'll blame Kenny.

It's for watching the National Weather Service Radar and wondering if I'm going to sleep before midnight.  Although, I'm sipping on a glass of iced tea anyway, so consulting the magic 8 ball here and thinking 'odds do not look good'.

 It's for snuggling down with a new book.

It's for those twenty 'just-one-more' hugs & kisses.

It's for the boy smacking the trim around the door and saying 'Night, Mom' before he takes the steps two-at-a-time.

It's for pizza, popcorn, and apples.

It's time for reflection.

And soon, it'll be time for bed. 

Blogging, this isn't how you do it....

Ever have one of those days where you want to call & talk to a friend but you just have too much to say and instead you think you'll email only you're not quite sure where exactly to begin so you think you'll just text her a quick 'hi & love u' but you get sidetracked because the dog barfs on the living floor just about the same time that you smell the distinct odor of something burning in the oven?

No?

Dang.  Only me then. 

What I'm trying so inelegantly to say is that sometimes I can be a horrifically fair-weather blogger.  If I've got too much going on (if only ever in my mind) then I tend to internalize until it's safe to peek out from  underneath my shell. 

So, what have I been doing with my time?

A little writing and a little reading. 

I've finished reading Nora Roberts new book, The Witness.  As always, it was super speedy and easy on my brain.  I love Nora.  She may not be the best writer in the world but her commercial success speaks for itself.  And 99% of the time, I love the characters that she creates.  So definitely two thumbs up on this book. 

The hubs and I watched Zero Dark Thirty last night.  And while it sits at 2-1/2 hours long, I don't remember it feeling like 280 minutes long.  It was fast-paced and intriguing, of course.  I know it was a dramatization of the events surrounding Osama Bin Laden's death.  But the culmination of it in the middle of the night, was just one small step in a huge journey.  And movie or no, it was interesting to see how they got from point A to point Z. 

We've been dealing with some very full creeks and rivers around here this week so it's very nice to see the sun shining and the temps warming up the windowsills and the concrete.  I've got little girls who wanna use up the sidewalk chalk and a boy who has a new basketball hoop. 


Also, I can't really say a lot about the Boston Marathon bombings other than that the families of the victims are in my heart and in my prayers and I pray for the bomber, too.  I can't help that part of me.  It's who I am. 

Alright.  I have some kitchen chairs to finish covering and a life to be living.  I will check in with you kool kats on the flipside.  Take it easy this week.  Be kind to each other.  No, strike that.  Be excellent to each other. 

You're my kryptonite....

....Oh my god.

Okay, first thing is first:  So sorry it's been so long since I've written anything down here. 

I'd like to say that it's because I've just busier than a one-armed coat hanger and partly, that's true.  But mostly, I just haven't been feeling it. 

Or maybe it's been because I've been feeling too much. 

And those feelings are fun things like being overwhelmed and drowning in my own thoughts.  And when that happens, dear friends, I duck and cover.

It's not a particular dignified coping mechanism, but it's mine. 

I think one of the most difficult things about blogging or writing is keeping momentum and to keep on trudging through even when you don't feel particularly awesome about anything.  Let me also say that I'm thankful for my daily blessings of my hubby and kiddos as I would be on the corner of no and where without them.  But, there are times as momma and a woman, where I'm just plain old fashioned burnt out. 

So in the interest of sanity, it's best to step away from the keyboard sometimes because not every thought I have in my head needs documented and there are times where you just gotta breathe without the crushing need to write it down.

I'd love to say that I've been painting our kitchen and bathroom and it's just because I'm working on a plan for our garden but that would be a big fat lie.  So, in the spirit of keeping it real, I will tell you that I've been reading oodles, snuggling with my short folks some, laughing with the teen, checking in with the step-d and just muddling through until Spring pokes its head up outta the ground manifesting as daffodils, tulips, and forsythia.

It's been a long winter, pals.

Time for some sunshine.  

For now, I'd like to:

- Go for a long walk by myself.

- Plan a garden with Sadie.

- Talk to Jude more about her views on the world (Seriously, anytime you need a reality break, talk to a five year old about the state of the union.  There is nothing in the world that will put your life into perspective than a kid).

- Play some MarioKart with the boy.  I've got an orange turtle shell with your name on it, dude.

- Go out for dinner with step-daughter and enjoy her laugh.  She and Sadie have the same laugh (ie. when they're truly happy, they laugh like a drunken sailor.  It's a thing of beauty, folks). 

- Get out in that flat bottom boat with that guy of mine with nothing but time and the admirable ambition of drowning some worms.

What's on your Springtime agenda? 

A Girl Who Writes....

I wish with all my heart that I knew who I could attribute this to, but alas, I do not.  I've linked the source at the bottom.  I don't know if some of you remember, but not too long ago, there was an essay going around by Rosemarie Urquico entitled 'Date a Girl Who Reads' that I posted on my blog in late 2011.  I just came across this one tonight.

She succinctly puts how I feel about writing (although, I am happily married) and what it's like to grow up being 'the girl who writes...'

Date a girl who writes.

Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve. 

Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love.

Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.

She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.

Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look too busy.

If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.

It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.

She’ll give you a chance.

Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.

A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.

Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.

If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.

She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.

She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright. 

You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.

You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.

Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.

Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.

Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads.

A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality. 

Date a girl who writes. 

Because there is nothing better then a girl who writes.

Source

Mojo JoJo

Okay if you've parented little girls any time in the last decade, you know who I'm talking about when I say Mojo JoJo.  If not, here he is in all his shining glory:

Source


That's right.  He's a cartoon character.  Mojo was introduced to the mainstream world through the creators of the Powerpuff Girls.  And while Bubbles, Blossom, and Buttercup drive me bugnuts (oh the alliteration), Mojo jumps to mind every single time someone utters the word Mojo. 

To speak plainly, I insert the word 'Jojo' in my head every time after I hear the word Mojo. 

Silly, right?

And you know what?  Writers can be silly, by nature.  They can also be foolish, dreamy, bleary-eyed, and hopeful. 

But the one thing a writer can never be is without ideas. 

There are always stories formulating in their head.  There are always words they are reaching for. 

I can overhear a conversation on the commuter bus and I have a story off and running before I walk down that last step on my way into work. 

Or I can watch my children playing together in the back yard and I'm taken back to the time where I ran wild with my girl cousins during the Summers of my youth. 

The scent of vanilla reminds me of slathering the stuff all over in order to avoid mosquitos and chiggers on my small arms and legs before running out the back door of grandparent's house to let the wooden door smack loudly against the frame as I ran pel-mel towards adventure. 

Burying my nose in the pages of a book reminds me of my little yellow flashlight and late nights reading under my sheets, heart hammering at every creek and shift of our old house. 

Listening to Waylon Jennings reminds me of falling asleep atop of a blue suitcase in the back of a white Nova with the windows down and my bangs dancing across my forehead as the sunshine warmed the world behind my eyelids.  

One of the best things of being a writer, and reader, is that you have a passport to the future and the past. 

You get to travel far away or to stay as close as your favorite blanket fort. 

You get to experience the life of super hero, their arch nemesis, or a little red-haired girl falling in love with a boy who teased and taunted her throughout childhood until she broke a slate over his head.

Movies are great and so is television but the world I've always loved is the one where my Mojo Jojo resides:  My imagination. 

In there I get to be a domestic goddess who makes trifles and has frozen appetizers on hand for guests who happen to drop by.  (in reality I have fish sticks and Coors Light if you wanna bop by my back door and say hullo)  Or I can still be that little girl who wanted to be a veterinarian and fix all of the broken animals or Pocahontas or Laura Ingalls or to ride off on a unicorn with Charles Wallace Murry.  Or I get to be the barista with all of the best coffee drinks.  Or the owner of the local small bookshop where people congregate to knit and bitch.  Or I'm the mom that makes things from scratch, sews her kids clothes, and organizes the best birthday parties around. 

Don't get me wrong, I love stepping back out in reality.  Because there I, too, get to be the plucky heroine when I pop Barbie's head back on when she's accidentally been decapitated or when I drop off an iced coffee drink to my teen while he's working or when I manage to find the hubby's missing left shoe. 

It's all about perception, folks.

Inside our heads and outside of bodies lies all of the inspiration in the world if we go looking for it. 

So, pray tell, what inspires you?  Do tell. 

I've always depended on the kindness of strangers...

So the next few weeks you might have to bear with me as I'm going through Tammy's class and working out some of my lessons/homework.  Today was about letting stories brew or formulate giving way to ideas that make my life what it is.

There are a few things that make me take paper and pen in hand, but more often than not it's people.  People fascinate me on so many levels because we're all such a different breed of cat.  We all have a story to tell and I've yet to come across a boring story.

I can still remember the day when I came out of the hospital where I was working well over ten years ago to see an old man sitting on a bench.  I was longing for some quiet and I had a book tucked under my arm to keep me company.  As I sat there the older man began to talk.  He'd been in the service for years and had married his childhood sweetheart.  She was upstairs, he said.  I don't remember what floor she was on, but it was apparent by his face that whatever was going on with her wasn't all that good.

So I sat.

And I listened.

He told me about being married to your sweetheart and it wasn't always what it was cracked up to be but overall things were 'good' he said.  And now they were here.

I remember saying I would pray for them and him patting my hand as he eased up off the bench as only people with creeky bones and weary hearts can do and he nodded and told me 'you just do that'.

I did, for the record.

And I imagine she passed away not long after that, but his story has stuck with me some thirteen years later.

I meet people like that.  They tell me about skillets that they wanna buy when we're in line at Wal-Mart.  Or just like the other day when I was talking to a woman who had three skeins of Red Heart yarn on the conveyer alongside the other every day items that make up a household grocery list.

"Knit or Crochet?" I asked.

She turned and grinned at me informing me that she crocheted.  We chatted about how I wanted to teach my daughter, nine-year old Sadie who was then helping to load the cart, and she nodded sharply and said it'd be better for her than all those 'danged video games they've got nowadays'.

Her hair was grey and she had rimless glasses on with gold arms that when they reached back to hook over her ears got lost in short salt and pepper hair.

She then told me, as she was loading grey plastic bags up in her cart, that after her husband had died a mutual acquaintance of theirs had knitted this woman a prayer shall.

"I didn't know her all that well.  It just meant more that way, I think."

She paused after running her debit card through the machine and smiling at the young cashier.

"You take care of them and good luck learning to crochet."

I saw her in the parking lot minutes later and as she backed out of the spot in her white and grey Dodge, I thought how very lucky I am sometimes to have these people pop up into my life every now and again and remind me that I'm lucky.

Not because I'm happily married with a living spouse and healthy children.  I know I'm lucky to have all of those things.  I'm lucky to be employed not only in a place that I love and work for people that I love, I'm just plain old fashioned fortunate to be working.

But I'm reminded every now and again that people are more than what they seem, that they have these amazing tales inside of them and even if they're only meant to be shared at the check out of Wal-Mart....they're still meant to be shared.

Now, one last story before I go.

There was a small child we got to visit when I first started at the hospital doing medical transcription.  For the sake of anonymity, I can't repeat his name but I can remember it to this day.  We had been typing reports for these small folks for weeks and it broke my heart sometimes to know that some of these kids had not only been in here for weeks they'd been in there for MONTHS on end.  I was frightened to death, as a mother, to walk into the NICU and PICU.  I thought 'God, this has to be the saddest place on earth.'

Let me now state for the record:  I was wrong.  Really really wrong.

That place is one of the happiest places in the world.  There are music therapists.  There are loving hands amidst all of that tubing and wires and machines.  There are people who care on-duty 24/7.

Now, we're going through the Peds ICU, being given a tour by the department head (who is a lovely person) and we're stopped by one of the small kids that we'd been writing about.  He'd been there for months - almost a year at the time - and you'd never know it.  He was .... for lack of a better word, ornery.  He made us laugh - this group of women that I was with - out loud more than once, let me tell you.

And when we left he hollered at us, "Ladies, come back!  I have video games."

Goodness sakes, I bet that kid was a handful for his momma.

I know he passed away some time later.  But, kiddo, again, you made an impression on me.

My granny always said she liked kids and dogs.  I like to think that she said that because both of those things can measure character better than any rorschach test in the world.  If my kids or dog doesn't like someone, there's gotta be a reason for it.  (Or they're packing gummy bears or a pastrami on rye in a not so concealed spot on their person)

So, maybe by sharing this story, you'll chat to the next person in line when you're in Wal-Mart or you'll stop to give a second glance to an old person sitting on a bench.  Just because it's not your story, doesn't mean it's not worth hearing....or telling.  

My Ideal Reader....

Author's Note: This is part of an assignment for the writing course that I'm taking through Tammy Strobel of Rowdy Kittens fame.

The lesson for today was asking who we think our idea reader is.  The following is what I believe my ideal reader would be (and also what kind of reader I know I am):

I don't think I have an ideal reader per se.  More than anything I appreciate and wish for engaged readers.  I would hope and wish for people to share their experiences or find something that I've written resonates within them or for them.  Recently I had a younger woman whom I've been friends with online for a few years - so she is well acquainted with me and my daily life - tell me that she has hope for herself in years to come when she has a family that she won't need to channel Martha Stewart with her home nor Julia Child in order to feed her family....

...that's what I want for a reader. 

I don't want a sycophantic ego-boosting cheerleader but ... just engaged I would say. 

I'm that type of reader, too.  I guess I want the real deal with what's going on.  It's not that I don't think that people really 'live that way' (ie Martha Stewart) but the things that keep me coming back are when you share your recipes of your favorite that Granny Miller made or that killer dip that someone brought to your Super Bowl party or that your kid-spouse-dog needs to be house in the garage-crawl space for the time being because they're chapping your hiney. 

I want the knitting patterns.

I want the short stories about your Aunt who is no longer with us, God rest her soul.

I want your favorite Summer memories. 

I want to find the hope and promise where maybe there wasn't any before.

And I hope any reader that finds their way here can find all of this and maybe some more, too.